


As Gunpowder Needs a War

by laisserais



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, BAMF Stiles, Breathplay, D/s, Daddy Kink, Dark And Inappropriate Humor, Dubious Consent, FaceFucking, Humiliation, Knifeplay, Knotting, Leg Humping, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, No Safeword, Non-Negotiated Kink, PTSD, Rough Sex, S/M, Stiles gets a prison nickname, Violence, dead dove do not eat, prison gangs both real and fake, threat of assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 01:52:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12098118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laisserais/pseuds/laisserais
Summary: Some correctional facilities have been described as hellish “monster factories.” In the face of long-term imprisonment, some inmates can become detached from reality, and a darker side to their personalities may emerge.~The 10 Most Dangerous Prison Gangs in the WorldAU where Stiles's life follows a very different path, but he still runs into Peter Hale. He's seventeen when he's convicted of murder and sent to an adult prison. Guess who his new roommate is.





	As Gunpowder Needs a War

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a [prompt](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/STETER_Prompts/requests) that I can't find anymore, but which involved:
> 
>   * Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
>   * Prison cellmates 
>   * Daddy kink
>   * Psychopaths in love
>   * Eventual murder boyfriends
> 

> 
> The prompt spoke to my trashy heart, and I wondered what would happen if Stiles, the boy monsters fear, was sent to the place where real life monsters are made.
> 
> Thank you to thatotherperv and derpyjeffcarter for cheerleading and beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
>  **Warning** : Listen. Please read the tags. If you want a more spoilery description of what happens, please [send an ask](laisserais.tumblr.com). This story is blithely violent, has gallows humor, contains dubious consent on-screen sex, and people who do not know how to handle their trauma. Stiles is 17, which is technically not a minor in California when it comes to consent. Read at your own risk.

* * *

“Fish! Fish! Fish!”

Meaty arms, scarred up and tattooed, reach past the bars all along the line of cages as the welcoming committee growls its chorus and wow, Stiles thinks, it’s just like in the movies. 

He’s shuffling down a hallway dimmed by grimy windows, guards in front of him slowing the pace at every locked door; guards behind him grumbling about working overtime. Stiles’s ankles are chained together, shortening his gait, making it a challenge to balance the humble load he’s carrying--all of his worldly possessions, as of today, for the next 20 to 80 years.

Their little parade finally pauses in front of a cell in the middle of a row of cells that are all the same. His new home’s view looks over a waist-high railing running around the edge of a balcony, overlooking an octagonal common area. Orange-clad goons are milling around down below, clustering around exercise equipment and televisions. The entire place smells like socks.

“Prisoner M78325, home sweet home. Lights out in thirty minutes.” The guard’s mustache is slightly yellowed just below his nose and it twitches when he smirks. He motions toward the cell’s open doorway as though he’s showing Stiles to his table. Once he’s uncuffed Stiles’s wrists and ankles, he steps back into the hall and says, “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

As Stiles steps into the cell, the door slides shut with an echoing finality that’s probably supposed to be disheartening. Stiles is probably supposed to start meditating on his crimes, begging God and Jesus for forgiveness. Watering his heart with the tears of remorse. 

Instead, Stiles stares at the sweaty slab of muscle that’s currently doing pushups in the scant three feet of space unoccupied by a bed, toilet, or desk. 

He dumps his stuff onto the bottom bunk and flops down. “Hiya, roomie,” he says. “Do you know when orientation is? I didn’t get a flyer.”

The guy side-eyes him, but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. 

Stiles leans back and settles his hands behind his head. “Which frat do you belong to? Alpha Tau seems pretty cool, but everybody says that Chi Omega throws the best parties. I don’t know, it just seems like a guy could really get off on the wrong foot around here if he chooses the wrong house to rush, you know?”

It’s subtle, but Stiles catches the stutter, the huff, as his bunkmate absorbs that. But he goes on ignoring Stiles, so Stiles gets up, unrolls the thing they call a blanket and takes about thirty seconds to distribute his belongings around the cell. After that, he goes back to staring at the guy. 

Definitely hot. He’s got the kind of bulk that only truly vain narcissists who spend hours at the gym or long-term inmates of a state prison have the dedication to acquire. Stiles silently counts to a hundred before the guy’s done. He jumps to his feet and dusts his hands, stares at Stiles with what he’d swear is a look of smug condescension.

He stands up and sticks out his hand. “Stiles Stilinski, new inmate. And you are?”

“I know who you are,” the guy says. He takes his time sizing Stiles up. “You’re the Baby-Faced Cop Killer. You’re not even old enough to be here.”

“Tell that to the judge,” Stiles says. “Well hey, since you know all about me, how about returning the favor.”

There’s a pause where the guy looks like he finds Stiles highly amusing. Stiles thinks his goatee is highly amusing. What is this, 1994?

“Peter Hale,” he says, but doesn’t shake Stiles’s hand. “I’m not supposed to be here, I was framed.”

Stiles busts out laughing. “Yeah, I bet that’s what you tell all the boys.”

Peter leans around him and snags his shirt off the top bunk. Stiles appreciates the way it clings to his sweat. He notices that Peter has cut the neck out of his shirt so that it hangs open like a v-neck. He doubts that’s regulation. 

In fact, taking in their surroundings, he’s noticing there are a number of non-regulation items in their little home. “Hey,” he says, picking up the portable radio from the shelf above the sink. “I didn’t get one of these when I came in.”

Peter takes it away from him and sets it back down. “I guess we should go over the rules around here.”

“Rules, yeah, definitely.” Gleeful, Stiles bounces on his bed and crosses his legs. “This is the part where you tell me that this is your house and I do what you say, right? And as long as I’m a good little fish and don’t cry when you fuck me, you’ll take good care of me? Keep all the gangs from shanking me in the shower?”

“You want me to fuck you?” Peter’s eyebrows are telling Stiles way more than Peter probably wants them to. This is going to be fun.

“I wasn’t aware that I had a choice in the matter,” he says. “And I mean, come on, have you seen my mouth? I’d hold me down and fuck me if I had the chance.”

“Good to know.” Peter straightens the items on his little shelf, blows away a piece of imaginary dust. “Did you really kill that cop?”

“I was framed,” Stiles says, dry. “I’m an innocent kid. It was bad circumstances; I had no choice, it was him or me. No one ever taught me better.”

“Right.” 

“What did you get framed for?”

“Rule number two: never ask anyone what they’re in for.”

“Okay. Don’t touch your stuff and don’t ask what you did. What else?”

“Don’t join a gang unless you have to, and if you’re smart, you’ll save your commissary for trade.”

“Is that it?”

“For now. I haven’t decided if it’s worth telling you the rest, or if it’ll be more fun to watch you fuck up and get stomped on.”

“That’s fair,” says Stiles, nodding. “Anything I can do to persuade you?”

“You need a nickname,” Peter says, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms. “Something easy to remember. How do you feel about 'Cocksucker'?”

“Well, it does have a ring to it. But it might give our fellow prisoners the wrong impression.”

“Oh yeah? Weren’t you the one who pointed out your best feature?”

“Yeah, but see, I have this feeling that anyone who tries to stick their dick in my mouth is going to come away from the encounter minus one dick and in a whole lot of pain. I’d hate to mislead folks.”

Peter laughs. “Okay.”

“Do you have a nickname?”

“Lights Out! Lock down. Lights out!” A booming voice comes over the loud speaker just before all the lights go out, except for a weakly sulfurous emergency light out in the hall. 

Peter strips out of all of his clothes and hops up into his bunk. “Rule number three: if you’re going to jack off, be quiet and don’t shake the bed.”

Stiles guesses they’re tabling the nickname question for later. “Got it. No loud masturbation, don’t touch your things, don’t join a gang.” They’re both quiet for a beat, and then Stiles says, “Hey Peter?”

There’s rustling, and Peter says, “What?”

“Thanks for being such a good tour guide. I think I’m gonna like it here.”

“You really are as crazy as they say.”

“If I can give you a tip, roomie, just as a way to make our continued mutual accommodation conflict-free, please don’t call me crazy ever again.”

Peter laughs.

“Yeah, I’m kinda serious, though,” Stiles says. “The last guy who called me crazy ended up minus a kidney and half of a spine.”

“Okay, kid. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good night, Peter.”

Peter doesn’t respond. Stiles sleeps.

* * *

  
"Well aren't you a pretty little fish."

Stiles is eating breakfast alone. He'd followed Peter and the line of prisoners down from their second floor perch, but when everyone else had turned left into the cafeteria, Peter had turned right. He'd shooed Stiles away, saying, "I've got the early shift. You're on your own, kid."

He'd been enjoying his reasonably edible powdered eggs and toast in peace until this cro-magnon decided join him.

"Did you know that the term 'fish' was first used to describe new prisoners in the mid 1700s? It came from the phrase, 'fresh fish,' indicating that the newly incarcerated person had only recently been caught."

Cro-magnon blinks at him and then smiles, revealing an uneven row of brown teeth. Well, they used to be teeth. "You got a real smart mouth, don't ya?"

"You weren't there," Stiles leans across the table confidentially. "So I'll give you this one, but we've already covered the topic of my mouth and what it's good for. I recommend that you not volunteer to show me."

He takes another bite of toast and clocks one of Cro-magnon's friends edging around the table behind him. Their little pas de deux is soon the center of everyone's attention, and three more goons sidle up next to Stiles's new friend, and it's funny how all of the guards suddenly have elsewhere to be. Stiles wipes his hands on his knees.

"You're a pretty little fish." The guy says again.

"Yep."

"But you don't got no manners. Nobody sits at this table unless I say they can."

"Okay," Stiles says. "Can I sit here?"

Cro-magnon cocks his head to the side like maybe he's honestly thinking about it. His buddy, whom Stiles has dubbed 'Knuckles' due to the fact that he won't stop cracking them, steps up then. "You ain't a Lord of Hell, or a Lord of Hell's bitch."

"Yet," says Cro-magnon, and shows his slimy grin as he laughs.

Knuckles laughs, too. "He ain't a bitch yet, that's a good one Spider."

Stiles is disappointed in their choice of nicknames. 

"Maybe we'll pass you around, get you good and broken in. Then we'll see if you can sass back."

"Yeah, broken in. He don't need all those teeth." 

Knuckles is looming menacingly and Stiles ducks just as the guy behind him makes his move. Fingers brush his ear as he slides out of his chair, away from the guy behind him, and launches himself at Spider. They topple backwards to the floor and Stiles has both thumbs firmly lodged in Spider's eye sockets. He can feel Knuckles going for his throat, so he throws his head back, hard, while keeping pressure on Spider's eyes. Knuckles goes down with a crunch and a wail and Stiles jams his knee in Spider's crotch as he levers himself up just in time to catch a left hook from some background goon. 

His head snaps back, mouth filling with blood; Stiles sees red, and the next thing he's aware of, he's being restrained by two guards. Spider, Knuckles and the rest of the Lords of Hell are mostly intact, although they're all writhing on the floor, leaking blood. Peter is standing on the other side of the goon pile, mouth hanging open and hair net askew.

When their eyes meet, Peter closes his mouth and raises an eyebrow. "I was coming to your rescue. But I guess you don't need rescuing."

Stiles huffs a laugh that turns into a groan as a guard's baton meets his solar plexus.

"Alright, Stilinski, time to introduce you to the SHU."

Stiles panics when he realizes what that means, knees buckling as they drag him out of the cafeteria. He screams himself hoarse. Hard fingers dig into his arms as they shove him down the stairs, down the hall, past guards and men who stare and stare as he fights to get free. 

They all just watch.

By the time the door opens and they toss him in, Stiles is a mess of snot and tears. He pleads with the guard, offers him anything, everything. It's the same guard as yesterday, his yellow mustache sneering as he strips all of Stiles's clothes and slams the door behind him.

Echoing in his ears for hours after he's left alone, Stiles still hears the guard's words: pathetic. Desperate little whore. Trash.

* * *

  
After an indeterminate amount of time, Stiles calms down. When he edges his thumbnail into a patch of blood, it flakes away, revealing unharmed skin. In fact, Stiles finds that none of the blood he's covered in actually belongs to him. For a minute he feels like a badass, until he remembers how unsanitary it is, and then he spends a long time carefully scraping himself down and searching for any possible open wounds.

After that he sings all of the lyrics to _OK Computer_. Even the ones that make no sense and are probably not the actual lyrics.

After that he recites pi as far as he can remember, and after that the walls start to bubble and drip, to fall in on him as he smothers in the airtight cell that is going to be his coffin, because he’s going to die in here, alone and naked and filthy. Gulping air doesn’t help because all of the oxygen is gone. He claws at the walls, at the door, shreds his fingernails down to pulp, until finally, blessed unconsciousness claims him.

*

They open the door and hose him down. A tray of slop slides through. Time passes.

*

He sings the bottles of beer song, counting backwards from a million.

*

A tray of slop slides through. It’s served with a side of bread that’s only a little moldy.

*

He tries to see how many times in a row he can jerk off, but loses count when he falls asleep.

*

A tray of slop slides through. He watches the finger-shaped bruises on his arms fade from blue to yellow to nothing. He plans, in loving and intimate detail, the slow vivisection of every single guard in the SHU.

*

He perfects his headstand.

*

When the door opens for good, Stiles can stand on his head for a solid two minutes, and is up to a hundred pushups in a row, no sweat.

*

“Well hello there, sunshine.” Peter’s reclining on the top bunk reading a magazine when Stiles walks in. 

“Miss me?”

“Actually, you were the only thing people talked about for days. The scrawny little newb who took out an entire prison gang. I lost a lot of money on you.”

“Well,” Stiles says as he crawls into his bunk. “That’s what you get for betting against me.”

“Never again.”

Clothes feel amazing. So does his piece of shit mattress. He could stand a shave and a hot meal, but other than that, Stiles is currently experiencing bliss. 

“So tell me about the SHU.”

“What?”

“What’s it like?”

“You’ve never been in solitary?” Stiles finds that hard to believe. He’s known Peter for a grand total of maybe eighteen hours, but come on. He doesn’t strike Stiles as the good behavior type. 

The bunk creaks and he can feel Peter shifting around. “Nope.”

“Well, you’re lucky. It’s as bad as any rumor you’ve ever heard. It’s worse than any Hollywood version or documentary can describe.” 

“Any moron could have told you that,” Peter says. “And yet you made a beeline for it on your first day.”

“Well, if _somebody_ had stood up and been my sugar daddy, I wouldn’t have had to take out an entire gang of dumbly-named bad guys.”

“Give a guy a chance. We didn’t even have time to work out a barter system.”

“If all the big scary gang leaders are as tough as Mr. Spider, I’ll make you a deal: one blowjob a day in exchange for my protection."

Peter laughs, bright and startled. It’s kind of the best thing Stiles has heard in a long time. 

“And you’ll only have to bend over on Sundays and holidays.”

“You’re so generous.”

“I know, right? But don’t go telling everybody. Anyone else wants protection, it’s two blowjobs a day.”

“I get the roommate special?”

“Exactly.”

They call lights out and Stiles is out between one breath and the next.

* * *

  
He wakes up and for a second isn’t sure why. Everything is dark and still. Then he hears it again. He’d been dreaming of lions. Stalking prey through tall grass, tearing into flesh and hot pumping blood. Roaring because it felt good to roar.

But he isn’t dreaming the roar. Or maybe it’s more of a growl. It’s a real sound and it’s coming from Peter. Stiles works on ignoring it and turns over. The bunk frame starts to shake, telegraphing Peter’s trembling. Stiles sighs, lays on his back and stares at the springs above him. It’s almost sub-vocal, Peter’s growling. Like a dog dreaming of a fight. He closes his eyes and hums to himself.

But when the growling gets louder and Peter starts to thrash, Stiles has no choice. Balancing on the edge of his bed on tiptoe, he shakes Peter’s shoulder. Gets no response. Tries again, more forcefully.

“Peter."

A hand wraps around Stiles's throat, stopping his air, and Peter sits up, eyes flashing red; in that moment, Stiles's swears there are claws pricking his skin as he struggles to breathe. Just as soon as it happens, though, it's over; Peter’s eyes are their normal, piercing blue and his hand is sliding down Stiles’s throat, over his shoulder, and away. Stiles breathes in slowly.

And maybe it’s because he's fresh off a week in solitary, or maybe he’s just fucked up, but Peter’s thick fingers choking him gets Stiles immediately hard. He’s standing there, teetering on the edge of his bunk with a raging boner, staring at Peter. Who’s staring back at him.

“What do you want?”

“Nightmare.” He has to clear his throat to say it. His balls ache. “You were having one.”

“Oh. That happens sometimes.” 

“Are they always so…” Stiles is clutching onto the edge of Peter’s bed, so he tilts his head from side to side, indicating wildness or maybe extremity. He’s sure he gets his point across well enough.

“I wouldn’t know. But previous cellmates have remarked on their frequency. Sorry for waking you.”

“It’s no. No problem.” Peter’s eerily still, watching him like prey watches a predator. This does nothing for his hard-on. “Ok, well. I’m going back to sleep,” Stiles says, and ducks back into his bunk. 

He waits until Peter’s breath is evened out in sleep, and then he jerks off as quietly as he can.

* * *

  
Stiles is assigned a job in the laundry.

It sucks.

It’s the first job he’s ever had. Well, the first legal job, and it’s grueling work. Ten hours a day of humidity and damp, lifting heavy sacks that smell like everything else in this place: dirty, decaying. Like what he’d imagine a medieval plague hospital smelled like. It smells wrong.

They’re ten hour days and when Stiles asks for a break, the team lead laughs at him, says if he doesn’t like it, he’s free to complain to the warden. Says he’s sure the warden will get right on it.

He sees Peter in the breakfast line. He’s supposed to be in the back, prepping for lunch, but after the first few days he figures out Stiles’s routine and is on the serving line just in time to slop an extra scoop of whatever turgid mash they’re passing off as food that day. It’s the thought that counts.

Since his visit to the hole, Stiles has made sure to keep his head down and the rest of gen pop cooperates by not fucking with him, although he doesn’t miss the way heads bow together and whisper as he walks by.

That’s fine. Really, it’s preferable. Since his little stunt, he doesn’t have to worry about dropping the soap or seriously contemplate the best place on his body for a swastika.

He’s not invited to join any gangs, and the Lords of Hell have lost their fiefdom to the Mexican Mafia. Word circulates that Spider’s blind, and has been removed from the general population. He’ll spend the rest of his sentence in the Special Housing Unit. Stiles can’t find it in himself to be remorseful.

Until he goes in front of the warden, that is. 

“Mr. Stilinski, care to tell me why you decided to permanently maim a fellow inmate?”

In what Stiles had first assumed to be a progressive move, the warden here is a woman. Ms. Sharpe lives up to her name. As she rounds her desk to lean against it, closer to Stiles’s chair, he’s reminded of a sewing needle. She’s rail-thin, wearing a silver suit that matches her steely gray hair. She crosses one meticulous and expensive pump over the other. Her arms follow suit. 

Stiles would call her stare unnerving, if he ever found that sort of thing unnerving. But as it is, he focuses on her enormous brassy necklace. It’s the only thing that strikes the wrong chord, he thinks. It’s like a chink in her armor where her real personality shows through. 

Stiles latches onto that. 

“I know it was wrong, Ms. Sharpe." He trains his eyes on the floor, sucks in a breath. "If I hadn’t been so scared, maybe if it hadn’t been my first day, I wouldn’t have lashed out so badly. Honestly, I didn’t mean to hurt him, I just wanted him to stop.” Stiles looks up at her, arms and legs open and relaxed. His eyes fill up with tears that carefully teeter at the edge, never quite spilling over. He’s far too proud to let a woman see him cry; he’s going to keep his stiff upper lip, despite the fact that he’s a lost little boy in a prison full of bad men. He trembles his lower lip, slouches down a bit more in his chair. 

She assesses him with her lips pursed. She tilts her head as though waiting for his mask to slip. It doesn’t. She nods briefly to herself and stands back up, going back around to sit at her desk and look at her computer screen. “And it was precisely that circumstance that is gaining you leniency with the board,” she says, typing faster than she speaks. “That’s why you only spent a week in solitary confinement, and why they’re only adding five years to your sentence.”

Stiles sputters, in a perfect imitation of shock, if he does say so himself. “What? But that’s not fair! I was only defending myself!” 

It hardly matters. He’s already been sentenced to life imprisonment--the ‘humane’ result of well-meaning liberals having recently vetoed the death sentence--it’s doubtful a parole board will ever believe in his rehabilitation. Not when parole boards are composed of ex-police and police sympathizers. They love nothing more than ‘being tough on crime.’ Really, they love nothing more than exercising the power of their state-sanctioned gang.

“Stiles, you can still turn this around.” Now Ms. Sharpe is using her maternal tone. The one that’s perpetually disappointed. “If you work hard, show up to all of your meetings, maybe work on getting your GED, you can still make something of yourself. I think you’ve seen the consequences of violence, now.”

Stiles huffs a laugh, scrapes the side of his shoe along the carpet. “Yeah I have. But Ms. Sharpe, what do I do if someone tries to hurt me again?” Look up through lashes, tilt head twenty degrees, blink twice, rapidly.

Ms. Sharpe’s expression melts into compassion. “You know you can always go to one of the guards if you’ve been threatened. They’re here to protect you.”

It takes a lot of effort not to snort in genuine disbelief. He clamps it down, bites his lip and nods. “Yeah, that’s a good point. I’ll try that, if it ever comes up again. But--” Brief pause, rising blush, gentle head shake in the negative. “No, nevermind.”

“What?”

“No, it’s ok. I don’t want any special treatment. I just…” Look out the window, three, two, one--

“Are you afraid that someone else will try and pick a fight with you, Stiles?”

Look back at her (pupils helpfully constricted due to the change in light), blinking back the tears manfully. “It’s just. It’s hard, you know? Being the youngest and the smallest. You know how they are.” He juts his chin at the window, indicating the yard beyond. “It seems like everyone’s got something to prove. Especially the guys down in the laundry. Like, take Tony, the team lead? He’s always shoving around the littler guys, making fun of them. I’m afraid that one of these days it’ll be me. And you know how far out of the way the laundry is. It’d take forever to track down a guard.” Gradually raise the timbre of the voice, ending on a wobble.

Ms. Sharpe’s eyebrows crease in concern. 

“No, it’s not a big deal, I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. I was just thinking of what you said. I want to get along, you know? Fit in.”

She sighs, tapping her fingernails on the desk. She fixes her stare on him again, going severe like a properly stern warden should. “Well, you’re right, you shouldn’t expect special treatment. Not from me, or from the guards or the counselors. You’re here because you are a convicted felon, Stiles. In the eyes of the law, you are the same as everyone else here.”

He nods his head quickly, emphatically agreeing as his eyes widen. Gosh, he’s really remorseful about that whole murder thing. Maybe even a little embarrassed. So gauche, murdering one’s foster father like that. So uncalled for.

“On the other hand,” Ms. Sharpe continues. “Our policy is to prevent any possible violence that we can. I’ll look into it, see what can be done.”

“Thanks, Ms. Sharpe. I appreciate it.” Huge grin, eyebrows up in relief, take a bow, gather roses.

And that’s how Stiles gets his second job in prison.

* * *

  
"You little bastard. You know there are guys who’ve been on the waiting list for years to work that gig?”

When Stiles tells Peter that he’s going to be working in the library, Peter’s response is gold. 

He makes what he’s decided to call his ‘Ms. Sharpe’ face--wide eyes and wobbly lip--and says, “Gosh, Peter. It’s not like I went in there looking for any special favors. I just explained to the nice warden lady that I was afraid some big mean bully might try and pick on me.” 

Someone like Tony, who is no longer the laundry team lead. Stiles grins.

Peter laughs. “Our Lady of the Needles is a surprisingly soft touch.” He’s shaving at the sink, looking at Stiles over his shoulder. His very naked shoulder. 

Since that first time, Stiles has found himself rubbing one out over Peter every chance he gets. He’s almost completely certain his onanism hasn’t woken Peter up.

“But ugh, the woman has ruined statement necklaces for me,” Peter says, and shakes his razor off.

“Right? What is with those hideous things?”

“She’s not just a warden,” Peter whips around, throws his towel at Stiles. He does a shoulder shimmy and throws his head back. “She’s also a woman.”

A warm flush suffuses Stiles, leaves him breathless. Peter’s so rarely goofy, and never outside the cell; Stiles likes being able to provoke that side of him. 

Peter’s gaze goes hawk-eyed and half-lidded at the same time. He cocks his head, and his body language changes. Stiles finds himself backing up as Peter advances. His back hits the wall and Peter doesn’t stop. 

“Stiles,” he says.

“Hm?”

Peter leans in closer, presses his hand against the wall next to Stiles’s ear. “Do I make you nervous?”

“What? No.” Stiles licks his lips.

“I noticed something.” His voice is low, almost a whisper against Stiles’s ear. Stiles’s breathing gets shallow. “I noticed that every time I get close to you, you get...let’s call it _excited._ ”

Stiles huffs a laugh.

“And I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Peter’s nose bumps just behind his ear and it makes Stiles shiver. “Are you?”

If Stiles looked down, he’d see his erection mere inches from Peter’s crotch. He’s not going to look down. “What?”

“Uncomfortable. Around me.”

“Uh, no.” His fingers curl and uncurl.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says. His own voice scraping the lowest register. His mouth is dry. Peter pulls back and looks at him. “I’m not uncomfortable, I just want to fuck you through the mattress.”

Peter smirks, a brief flash, before he surges in and kisses him. His mouth is hard. It’s demanding. Stiles opens up, makes his own demands. He grabs Peter’s hips, pulls them flush together. Can feel that Peter’s just as “excited” as he is. He breaks the kiss to laugh into Peter’s mouth. 

“Is that what you want?” Peter asks, caging him against the wall with both hands. “Want me on my hands and knees for you?”

“For a start.” Stiles leans back in for another kiss. Rolls his hips up and gets a beautiful moan out of Peter, does it again. He works his way down Peter’s neck, biting into the taut skin that hides such vulnerability. Peter’s cock nudges up against him, thrusts uncareful and sure. Peter doesn’t ask for permission, just goes for what he wants. 

It’s one of his best qualities.

Stiles holds his hips back far enough to work a hand into Peter’s pants, cups his balls and rolls them gently before getting down to business, jacking him off fast and rough, tight grip twisting on the upstroke as Peter breathes obscene praise into his ear. 

He fits his thigh between Stiles’s legs and rocks up against in him counterpoint to Stiles’s hand on his cock and Stiles rides him as he leaves teeth marks down his neck, down his chest. Licks across a nipple before biting down as hard as he can. Peter twitches. “Fuck,” he says, and his hands finally come off the wall. They lift Stiles up by the ass and carry him over to the bed. He dumps Stiles on his back on the bunk and strips out of his pants and underwear. Stiles does the same, lifting his hips and kicking them off, stripping off his t-shirt gracelessly.

Peter climbs up over him and there’s a flutter of _no_ for less than a second before Stiles shuts it down and reaches for Peter, digs his fingernails into his arms and pulls him down so they’re skin touching skin and Stiles opens up, opens his mouth to receive a kiss and to receive the attention and Peter’s body is hard and firm and insistent. It is present and intentional, just like Stiles, who’s making a choice, who is following up intent with action and sliding his hands down Peter’s back, over his ass, which is magnificent. His fingertips crest one cheek, he drags a finger in between, pressing lightly, testing the waters.

Peter nips at his bottom lip before pulling back. He smirks. “You want to fuck me?”

“Yes,” Stiles says. A rare moment of unvarnished truth.

“You’re going to have to earn it,” Peter says, and takes Stiles’s wrists in his hands, which are surprisingly powerful, drags them over Stiles’s head until Stiles grasps the crossbar that holds the bunk together. 

Stiles holds on as Peter goes down, takes Stiles’s cock in his mouth like all the angels in heaven. It’s a religious experience. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Stiles says, and when he arches up for more, Peter holds him down effortlessly. Fingers splayed, his hand spans nearly all of Stiles’s chest. Stiles can already feel his balls drawing up. He digs his toes into the mattress, his legs are trembling. “Peter.” 

Peter doesn’t answer, just continues to provide a truly excellent blow job. Stiles uncrosses his eyes and tries to focus. “How-- Fuck. How do I earn it?”

When he pulls off, he licks at the trail of spit he’d left behind. “Don’t come.” And then he goes back to it. 

Stiles holds out as long as he can, but come on. He’s seventeen and Peter’s mouth gives no quarter. He bites back a whimper, thinks of baseball, global famine. The iron bar in his grip is cutting into his skin. Everything is rising toward Peter, rising up through his nerves and muscles and skin toward Peter like his mouth is the answer and Stiles’s body has been asking the question for weeks. “Peter. Fuck, stop, I’m gonna--”

Peter meets his eyes, a wicked glint as he doubles down, takes him all the way and when Stiles feels Peter's throat flutter against his cock, it’s over. He can’t hold out. He comes like it’s tearing him apart and Peter keeps going until there’s nothing left.

He’s shuddering, deep gasps of air when Peter works his way back up to kiss Stiles. It’s dirty and wet, and Stiles can taste himself. 

“Well, that didn’t last as long as I thought it would,” Peter says. His grin is smug. “Don’t worry, baby,” he nuzzles behind Stiles’s ear and then bites. “We can practice again later. I know you want to be good for Daddy.”

Stiles jerks, anger bolting through him, but something peculiar happens. The anticipated urge to jam an ice pick in Peter’s eye doesn’t materialize. Maybe it’s the fact that he just came, or maybe it’s just his own perverse and contrary nature, but the anger is alchemizing into lust, and to Stiles’s astonishment, the idea of calling Peter ‘daddy’ just turns him on.

He turns to meet Peter’s gaze. “I do,” he says. “Can you help me, Daddy? Help me learn to be a good boy?” He reaches for Peter’s cock, still hard and leaking. He strokes it inexpertly, too loose, too rushed.

A look of bliss washes over Peter’s face. He dips down for another kiss. “Yeah, sweetheart, I can help you. Let me take care of you.”

Stiles returns the kiss and thinks: well, who knows. Maybe it’ll be fun. And if it’s not, he can always kill Peter later. 

“Turn over, I wanna eat you out.” Peter smacks him on the flank, urging Stiles to roll over. Stiles goes, spreading his knees wide to accommodate.

It feels good, like rim jobs always do, but Stiles has just come, and unburdened by the fog of desire, he can focus on Peter’s responses. Peter’s got his cheeks spread apart, thumbs pulling his hole open, tongue darting in and then circling before darting in again.

“Oh, fuck, Daddy, that feels so good,” Stiles whispers, like it’s a secret. He buries his head in the pillow, shoves back against Peter’s tongue. Peter loves it, moans against his ass, hot breath making Stiles’s balls tingle. 

He fists his hands in the sheets and spreads his knees as wide as they’ll go on the narrow bed. He starts to beg and Peter's fingers dig into his skin. It feels like he's growling. Peter’s goatee tickles when he buries his face deeper, his hands on Stiles’s hips, fucking him back against his tongue. Stiles's knees slip against the sheets.

“Please,” Stiles whines. Pants heavy and open-mouthed.

“Please what?” 

Stiles makes little hurt noises, like he doesn’t know what his dick is for, rubs his face into the pillow like he’s shy. His cock has started to get hard again. “Need you.” Peter’s hands clench on his ass.

“Want me to make you feel better?”

“Yes, sir. Please.” He looks back over his shoulder at Peter, whose lips are slick and red, eyes dilated. He’s really into this. “Fuck me, Daddy. I need it.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, voice weak. “Ok, sweetheart. I can do that for you.” He gets up and disappears around the bunk, comes back holding a little hotel-sized bottle of lotion. Stiles guesses it’s better than taking it raw, and at this point in the proceedings, he’s kind of invested in getting fucked. It’s been awhile since he’s taken a cock, but he remembers it had always felt good, regardless of who it was attached to.

The prep is sloppy and somewhat haphazard. It starts with one last kiss to his asshole before Peter sinks two fingers into him. Stiles gasps at the suddenness of it. He goes soft for a minute as he adjusts.

“That’s it, baby. Take it for me. You’re doing so well.” Peter runs his free hand up Stiles’s spine, collars his neck and squeezes. Stiles is having trouble coordinating breathing, everything focused on his ass and the sensation that’s only half pain; the other half of it’s more like...awareness. Stiles is very aware of his asshole being stretched over two of Peter’s fingers. They slide in and out roughly, too quick and deep.

It hurts, but Stiles doesn’t want him to stop. He sits up on his hands for more leverage and bounces against Peter’s hand. 

“Look at you. You can’t get enough, can you?”

Moaning, Stiles nods. “Yeah, Daddy, please, want more.”

“I don’t know if you’re ready, Stiles. You’re still so tight. Look at my cock.” Stiles swivels his head to watch Peter stroke himself. He’s up on his knees, cock jutting forward, angry red and leaking. 

“Mm.” Stiles draws the syllable out like he’s looking at something delicious.

“You think you can take all of this?”

Torn between rolling his eyes and playing the part, Stiles bites his lip, looks up, says, “I can do it for _you_ , if you want me to.”

This time the little hurt noises are real, as Peter shoves in. It’s clearly part of the game for Peter, the lack of adequate lube and the pain. Stiles doesn’t hold back, he lets Peter know exactly what every excruciating inch feels like. He clutches at Peter’s knee, gouges flesh as Peter sinks all the way in.

Peter wraps an arm around Stiles’s chest and makes him sit upright, straddling Peter’s lap backwards and taking his cock all the way to the hilt. He rubs Stiles’s belly as he starts to move, hard but slow, little rocking motions that jolt all the way up Stiles’s spine. Whispers in his ear. “So pretty for me. Shh, hold still now, let me make you feel good.” He restrains Stiles with one hand on his belly and the other across his windpipe, tilting Stiles’s head back so that it’s resting on Peter’s shoulder, and when Stiles reaches for his own cock, he squeezes. “Ah ah, I didn’t say you could touch.”

“Please,” Stiles says, and he can hear the desperation leaking out. It feels like he’s been strung between pleasure and pain for so long. He’s going to snap if he doesn’t get off soon.

“I know you can wait, Stiles. You're a good boy. Trust Daddy, he’ll make it better soon.”

There are tears of frustration prickling behind his eyes and his cock is throbbing. His asshole hurts but Peter keeps nailing his prostate.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. So hot. Taking it so beautifully. Just a little more, baby, just hold on.” He speeds up, pistoning in with no regard for the lack of lube, and when Stiles tries to squirm away, he just clamps down again, hand spanning his windpipe, and Stiles is struggling to breathe. He scrambles at Peter’s fingers, tries to pry them loose. “Yeah, that’s it,” Peter says. “Fight me. Come on, Stiles, harder. I know you can fight,” Peter growls. “Fucking fight me.”

Black spots are forming in his vision. Stiles can’t budge Peter’s hand a single inch. “Oh fuck yeah,” Peter says. “Squirm for me. Come on. Do it.” Stiles thrashes ineffectually, running on pure instinct, trying anything he can to get one more sip of air, and Peter starts to come. 

He can feel it in his ass, which pisses him off because Stiles never said he could creampie, but he’s losing consciousness, every atom screaming for air, and Stiles cannot believe that he let this asshole kill him during sex.

Just as he’s about to black out, Peter lets go of his throat and starts jacking him off and as Stiles gasps in blessed oxygen, he comes with a force he’s never experienced before. He comes so hard it hurts. 

There are actual tears by the time he’s done. Stiles has never been this wrecked before. He’s impressed. But still pissed. He may or may not shank Peter in his sleep tonight. He’s not sure yet.

“There you are, baby. See, didn’t I say I’d take care of you?” Peter’s kissing his hair, still stroking him off slowly as shudders wrack his body. “You did so good, Stiles. I’m proud of you.”

Stiles slumps to his side when Peter lets go of him. Boneless and slurring, he says, "you fucking bastard. Non-negotiated breathplay on the first date is just tacky."

Peter laughs, runs a hand through Stiles's hair, which Stiles tries to shake off, but he's tired. His eyes won't stay open. "Maybe, but you did it to please Daddy, didn't you? You like to make Daddy happy, because you're a good boy."

Stiles is almost completely asleep, already dreaming of revenge scenarios that involve Peter on his knees, humiliated. Possibly castrated. Peter curls around him, whispering praise into his ear.

Yeah, he’ll probably murder Peter eventually, but it can wait.

* * *

  
Stiles’s cock thickens every time he touches the bruises ringing his throat in a perfect shadow of Peter’s hand. 

* * *

  
Stiles is sore everywhere. He’s moving like an old man as he trails behind Juan, who’s showing him the library. Upon seeing Stiles’s condition Juan had crossed himself and whispered in Spanish, “Mother of God. You are property of the Beast.”

At least, that's what Stiles thinks he said. His Spanish is rusty.

“So this is where you return the carts,” Juan says. “On Mondays and Thursdays you take the cart through SHU. Nobody can take a book unless they return their book. One book at a time.” Juan is a short, wiry old geezer who shakes his arthritic finger at Stiles at the end of each sentence, as if Stiles is hard of hearing or maybe recalcitrant. Stiles always nods. 

“When you go through the gate to SHU they’ll stop you, they like to search everything. Couple of years ago a guy smuggled in a, how do you say, Smith & Wesson .22 Escort.” Juan laughs. “The joke was on him, though. There’s a reason nobody ever uses those things. It blew up in his face. Now he’s in SHU and has to eat through a tube.”

“Got it, no smuggling in guns,” Stile says, and follows Juan around the desk to where the card catalog sits. It’s an actual card catalog, too, like, it’s a big wooden case full of tiny drawers with brass pulls. Stiles has never seen anything like it. 

“When you bring the books back, you gotta find the card for it, here,” Juan points at a giant rolodex, indexed with the letters that represent each wing of the prison. “We check ‘em out to the prisoners’ numbers, so you gotta make sure you know it before you hand a book over.”

Stiles spins the Rolodex and watches the cards flick past. In here is a list of what everyone in the prison is reading. It would be useful information, if they didn’t censor what the library carries. As far as he can tell, the censorship is arbitrary and at least partially be based on the cover art, because along with the expected lack of any works by George Jackson and Huey P. Newton, there are no romance novels. But already Stiles has come across a dog-eared and slightly soggy copy of _Sexus_. No doubt its title has made it highly popular, but since the cover is bare of any decoration, the obscene book seems to have flown under the radar. While Stiles mentally congratulates the subversion of arbitrary puritanism, he only handles the book by picking it up between index finger and thumb. God only knows what bodily fluids have soiled it.

His job seems to primarily be to sit on a stool and stare into space. He doesn’t mind this. 

Along with the bowdlerized card catalog, the computers, while technically connected to the internet, are so heavily firewalled that it’s almost not worth the effort. Almost. The first time Juan leaves him alone, he hacks through the prison’s security measures and sets up a vpn that will leave a perpetual tunnel that Stiles will be able to tap into anytime he wants. He smiles to himself. Prisons may be physically secure, but their metaphorical walls are just begging to be breached. 

And Stiles is nothing if not enterprising. He downloads a variety of porn--static photos, easily printed and stashed between a novel’s pages. Next he checks his email, two of his primary bank accounts, and skims the news. He sets up some online trading, does a little investing, then wipes the whole thing clean before Juan gets back. He prints the porn in limited editions of three copies of each picture in a range of sizes. He’s got everything from Japanese schoolgirl to watersports to prison gang bang. He’s thinking of hanging the last one up in his cell.

He touches his neck and smirks. Pay back for Peter’s little stunt is going to be fun. 

"Stiles, come here, I want to show you the Dewey Decimal System." 

As he follows Juan into the stacks, Stiles takes note of the aisles that get higher foot traffic and which aisles get none at all. He looks for the secluded nooks that an entrepreneurial sort might turn into political capital. If he controls access to privacy, he reckons he can trade it for just about anything. And the best thing is, these little blind spots where the cameras can’t see, they’re a commodity that will never run out.

In short: Stiles cases the library and finds half a dozen ways he can leverage this new job to his own benefit. It's a shame he won't be here long enough to really capitalize on the place. He catches up to Juan and slings an arm around his shoulders. “Juan, my friend,” he says. “I think I’m gonna like it here.”

* * *

  
The sun is out; it's another gorgeous winter day in California. Stiles strolls the perimeter of the yard, testing how close to the fence he can get before the guards get twitchy.

When he comes up on the Mexican Mafia, all the guys go quiet. They huddle up like covered wagons on the Oregon Trail.

As he saunters past he hears them whisper about the Lords of Hell. Something about The Beast again, about the monsters their mothers warned them about when they were children, and the things that lurk in the dark.

He’d put the word out via Juan that he’s selling porn. Turns out Juan’s like the town crier, given amnesty because he’s old and kind of simple. He connects customers with sellers, and gets a healthy kickback for his trouble. 

All Stiles has to do is walk through the yard and they come to him. 

“Hey man, I hear you got kites.” 

Stiles does indeed have kites, but he’s only in the market for some very specific trade. He looks the guy up and down. He’s nervous and sweaty. Shifty looking. “Maybe,” he says. “What do you need?”

“You got anything with big asses?” The guy leans in closer and whispers, “Or some shemales?”

“What do you have to trade?”

“Cup O’ Noodles, shrimp flavor.” When Stiles looks askance, he follows up with, “OK, a pack of Cup O’ Noodles. A-a-and a deck of cards.” His eyebrows twitch up. “I got a rain poncho?”

“I’m looking for a shiv. Find me a guy selling one, and you can have all the trans porn you want.”

The guy splutters. “Serious?”

“Sure,” Stiles shrugs. He’s feeling generous. The guy’s neck tattoo proclaims him a member of the Surteños, who don’t usually play well with the Mafia. Interesting.

Stiles keeps walking and the guy goes running back to his friends. After drifting back towards the fence a couple of more times, and each time having rifle scopes pointed at him, he decides that route won’t be an option.

He sells a couple more pictures--ending up with half a dozen Cup O’ Noodles and the promise of a radio after rejecting yet another rain poncho; seriously, why would anyone squander commissary on fucking rain ponchos, jesus--and ends his circuit of the yard where he’d started: at the weights, where Peter’s still on the bench, lifting twice Stiles’s body weight in the sparkling sun. He’s shirtless now, the bastard.

“Hello, Cupcake,” Peter says, slanting him a smile as he does another rep. Stiles watches the sweat roll down his chest. “Busy day at the office?”

Stiles sits on the next bench over, fiddles with the weights. “Took the day off. Got my nails done. Went shopping,” he says. 

“Didn’t I say I’d take care of you, baby? Just say the word, I’ll get you anything you need.” He does another rep. He’s not even out of breath.

Also, Jesus, is this guy for real? 

“Gonna give me an allowance, Daddy?” Stiles lays out on his back and toys with the overhead bar. Wiggles until his shirt rides up. He licks his lips as he checks Peter for a reaction. That thing happens again, where it looks like Peter’s eyes flash red. 

“Maybe,” Peter says. “If you do all your chores.”

A couple of guys look over, but quickly look away. Stiles knows that he’s been given a wide berth ever since he went berserker on Spider--which is totally fine with him--but he’s been noticing that people shy away from Peter in the same way. No one ever tries to crowd him.

“You know, darling, it isn’t very wise,” Peter drawls, “to advertise the fact that you’re looking for a shiv.” 

Stiles blinks, startled out of this thoughts. There’s no way Peter could have heard him all the way across the yard. “What? Who said I’m looking for a shiv.”

Peter’s look is disappointed mixed with amused. “Let’s put it this way: you’re less than subtle, Stiles. The Mafia may see it as provocation to take you down.”

Snorting, Stiles does a rep on his own bar. Shit, it’s heavy. He re-racks it and stretches his arms over his head. “Even if I were in the market for a shiv, it’s not like I need one to kill somebody.”

“Believe me, I know. I’ve seen you in action. Still, they have numbers on their side. And patience. I’m just saying: be careful.”

“Why, Peter, I didn’t know you cared.” 

“A sweet piece of ass like yours doesn’t come along every day.” Peter finishes his set and sits up, wipes his face with his t-shirt.

Stiles sits up, too. “What did you do to get people to leave you alone?”

“Hm?”

“Nobody ever fucks with you.” Stiles waves his hand at all the unused free weights and empty benches. “It’s noon on a Tuesday, prime exercise time in the yard, and nobody’s here.”

“Did you ever consider that they might be afraid of you?”

“Of course,” Stiles says. “But I couldn’t make them this scared all by myself. You’re a part of it, too. I overheard the Mafia talking about El Cucuy. Dude, I think they think you’re the boogeyman.”

Peter laughs and stands up, flipping his t-shirt over his shoulder. “The monster that monsters are afraid of. Oh, sweetheart, they definitely call somebody El Cucuy, but it’s not me. I’m not the stuff of childhood nightmares, I’m just a werewolf.” His eyes go red and stay that way; his teeth sharpen as he smiles. Stiles stills as he takes it in. 

“So I wasn’t hallucinating that,” he says, and reaches out to touch a fang. Peter pulls back, and in a blink his face is normal again.

“That’s all you have to say? I tell you I’m a werewolf and the first thing you do is stick your hand in my mouth?”

Shrugging, Stiles searches Peter’s face for any trace of what had been there moments before. “Honestly, it’s not the weirdest thing I’ve seen in prison, dude. So does everyone know you’re a werewolf? Do they know that werewolves are real?” Stiles processes that. “Shit, werewolves are _real_.”

“There you go,” Peter says. “Little slow on the uptake, but you got there eventually.”

“Do it again.”

Peter closes his eyes and sighs, like Stiles is the worst kind of trial. When he opens them, they’re red, though, so he must not mind that much. “I find that a simple subsonic growl and a flash of eyes makes for a surprisingly effective deterrent against aggression.” The fangs make him slur a little. It’s comical.

“Yeah, I’d buy that. Hey--so if you’re not El Cucuy, then you’re The Beast, aren’t you?”

When he tilts his head, he looks just like a dog. Stiles bites his lip to keep from laughing. 

“How’d you figure that out?”

Stiles’s fingers go up to his neck, caressing the bruises he can no longer feel, but knows are there. “Something Juan said the other day.”

“Hm. I’d been hoping that someone with a sense of humor would name you ‘Beauty’ but no such luck. By the time you came out of the hole, the damage had already been done.” Peter’s eyes turn blue again, his teeth get blunt, leaving a slick smile that reminds Stiles that Peter’s real danger doesn’t lie in his fangs.

“Let me guess. I’m El Cucuy.”

“Twenty points to the precocious lad from Beacon Hills.”

* * *

  
It’s after lights out before Stiles gets the chance to investigate Peter’s condition to his own satisfaction.

Peter starts off the night’s festivities the way he usually does: skipping foreplay pretty much entirely. He’s straddling Stiles on the lower bunk, a hand down his pants, three fingers pressing insistently at Stiles’s asshole while he licks up Stiles’s neck. 

Digging his fingernails into Peter’s shoulders, Stiles whimpers. “Hurts, Daddy.” 

And the thing is, it’s not like Stiles didn’t realize before that he’s a little unwell. He’s aware that he could probably work on one or two issues. But this whole thing with Peter’s throwing him for a loop, because on the one hand, he can barely stand the guy and his schmaltzy come-ons. But on the other, the daddy thing’s kind of working for him. 

Maybe it’s because he knows that Peter knows that he knows that it’s fucked up, and Peter does it anyway. Like, it’s kind of hot, how Peter _knows_ he’s taking his life in his hands, pulling this with Stiles, and it doesn’t stop him. 

Or maybe Stiles is just more perverse than he ever gave himself credit for. 

Whatever. The point is, while half of his brain is standing in the corner laughing at him, the other half gives no fucks, and every time he tries to push Peter’s boundaries and can’t find any, it just gets him off harder. 

He’s weighing the pros and cons of asking Daddy if he can help him potty train. What if he says yes? Stiles has never tried watersports, but who knows, maybe he’d be into it. 

“Sh, little one, it’s ok, I’ve got you.” Peter’s fingers are relentless, splitting him open whether Stiles is ready or not. “Just relax.”

Peter shifts his weight to his elbow, spanning Stiles’s throat with his free hand, pulling down Stiles’s lower lip with his thumb. The fingers in his ass are fucking him faster, and it feels like they’re going in all the way to the knuckle. Stiles opens his eyes to find Peter watching him, so he flicks out his tongue, licks over the pad of Peter’s thumb, sucks it into his mouth and moans. 

Peter’s eyes flare red. It’s unnatural. Stiles is unbearably hard. He lets go of Peter’s thumb and pulls him down, whispers in his ear. “Gonna fuck me like a wolf, Daddy? Like I’m a little bitch in heat?”

He hisses when Peter pulls his fingers out. Hears his pants tearing away and then Peter’s shoving in, shoving Stiles up the bed until he wraps his legs around Peter’s ribs. He can’t even try to stifle his reaction as Peter bottoms out. He bites down on Peter’s arm.

"You'd be such a good bitch, too, wouldn't you," Peter says. "Roll over so easily. The way you beg for it."

Stiles hitches his legs up higher, rests more weight on his shoulders, rolling up to meet Peter’s thrusts. “Please,” he whispers. “More.” He digs his fingernails into Peter’s back and drags them down.

Snarling, Peter picks up speed, fucks him deeper, and Stiles closes his eyes, all of his attention focused on what he’s feeling. The throb in his ass, his prostate lighting up, the roaring just beneath his skin that fuzzes pleasure into pain and back again. He lets it all go and rides it, lets it wash over him.

When Peter fucks him like this, fucks him brutal and relentless, everything else in Stiles’s head gets quiet. It’s beautiful.

"What else can you do, Daddy?” he says, wanting to see if he can rile Peter up more, push him over the edge. “Can you go full wolf?" It's difficult to get enough air to form words, practically folded in half. His voice comes out high and breathy, like a little kid. “Could you knot me?”

Peter stills so quickly it’s jarring. Only his quiet groan let’s Stiles know he’s coming. “You’d like that,” he says, after a beat. “Get you all stretched out.” Peter shifts his weight, and his hand on Stiles’s cock is so good he almost misses it when Peter works a finger in alongside his softening cock. “Be so loose from my knot you wouldn’t be able to hold it all in. I’d keep you spread open, watch my come leak out of you like a filthy whore.” He works in a second finger, just holding it there in his ass, and Stiles hisses. He pulls Peter’s hair as he works his hips up and back, faster, harder, chasing his own release. Peter’s up on his knees, watching. Stiles’s hands slip from his hair, down his neck to his shoulders, still clawed and leaving marks. 

“Not--oh fuck, fuck--not a whore,” Stiles says. Peter’s hand on his dick tightens near to pain, and he’s jacking Stiles off hard and quick.

“No, you’re not, are you baby? You’re a good boy.” He pulls his dick out of Stiles and adds two more fingers inside, spreads them apart, and that’s all Stiles can take, he’s coming. Eyes shut tight, teeth gritted as the orgasm is ripped out of him. “Such a good boy for Daddy.”

Stiles drifts for a bit, after. When he opens his eyes, he sees that Peter has cleaned them both up. He rolls to his side, pulling the remnants of his pants out from under his ass. They’re a total loss. He has nothing to wear tomorrow. Awesome.

“I mean, the unrestrained passion is hot and all,” he says, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. “But could you maybe not ruin my _only_ set of clothes next time?”

“Sorry, darling.” Peter comes back from the sink looking like he hasn’t just been mauled and it’s not fair. “I’ll try and be more delicate with you.”

“So, seriously though, could you knot me?”

Peter slides into Stiles’s bunk and pulls Stiles back down so that he’s mostly draped on top of Peter. This is another unexpected thing: Peter is a cuddler. Stiles isn’t sure yet how he feels about it. 

“Yes,” says Peter. 

Stiles waits a beat, and when it’s evident that that’s all Peter’s going to say, he prods. “Will you?”

Peter sighs and pulls Stiles closer. “I don’t know,” he says. “it’s kind of a lot of work. What’s in it for me?”

Stiles blinks. “Um. I’ll let you lick your come out of my ass?”

“You really want to get knotted? Do you even know how that works with humans? Although,” he says, and looks up at the springs overhead. “If you’re gonna do it, anal is really the only way it would work. Vaginas are just not built to take it.” He shudders. Stiles is so tempted to ask. 

He doesn’t. Instead he curls up and rubs his cheek into Peter’s neck. Says, “Is it gonna hurt, Daddy?”

“Yes, sugar, it’ll hurt. But I can make it feel good, too. If you’re good and do as I say.”

“Will you shift into a wolf when it happens?”

Peter shrugs. “Not so much a wolf as...something else. Something much bigger and deadlier than a wolf.”

Thinking about it is getting Stiles hard again already. “What else can you do? Like, are you super strong? Do you crave raw human flesh on the full moon? I need details.”

Huffing a laugh, Peter turns so he’s on his side, facing Stiles. “You’re really not afraid of me, are you.” He sounds almost disappointed. 

“If I’m not scared, I’m bored,” Stiles says. “Besides, if you wanted to kill me, you’d have done it already.”

“True,” Peter says. “And likewise.” 

“So,” Stiles makes a winding motion, impatient to know everything there is to know about being a werewolf.

“So, yes, I'm very strong. I’ve ripped doors off cars without trying. And I can run faster than most animals, certainly faster than humans. My senses are all far more heightened. I can hear a pin drop across a football field, smell emotions, to some degree, and I can tell when people lie to me.”

“That’s an impressive list. So...why are you in prison? There’s no way ordinary law enforcement could have caught you.”

Peter smiles, like he’s especially proud of Stiles. “That is an excellent question, the answer to which lies protected in a cell in the SHU.”

“Wait a second. Are you telling me that you got caught, on purpose, so you could, what, get at someone inside the special housing unit?” 

“In a nutshell, yes,” Peter says. He looks smugly amused. 

“And in this genius plan of yours, did you have an exit strategy?”

Peter shrugs. “Getting out is the easy part. It’s getting into the protected ward that I’ve been focusing on. And you, my little dumpling, have become an inconvenient snag in my scheme. If you weren’t such a good fuck I’d have killed you for it.”

“Me?” Stiles props himself up on an elbow. “What did I do?”

“You stole my job in the library. Do you know how long I’ve had to put up with the petty taunts of half-witted criminals, all in an effort to get that gig? You have to have a spotless record to work in the library, and it’s the only job in the entire prison that goes into the SHU unsupervised. It’s been a trial to my patience.” Peter runs a hand down Stiles’s arm, along his ribs, squeezes his ass, which is still sore. “But,” he says. “Now that _we’re_ on such good terms, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind doing a little recon for daddy, would you, sweetheart?” He runs his fingers down the cleft of Stiles’s ass, probing at his hole. Stiles hisses and pushes back against Peter’s hand.

It takes him a second, but when it clicks, Stiles is abruptly pissed off and amused in equal measure. “You fucking dick. You seduced me right after I told you that I’d gotten transferred to the library.”

“Mm,” Peter smirks, leans in and bites at Stiles’s neck. “That’s what I like about you, Stiles. You’re always calculating other people’s motives.”

“You’re not denying it.” He tilts his head back to give better access.

“Why should I? We both know I’d be lying.” Peter rolls his weight onto Stiles, pushing him back against the bed, and shifts his thigh in between Stiles’s knees. “But you’re such a good boy. Sweeter than I had anticipated,” he says. 

“So what’d this guy do to you? I’m assuming you didn’t break _in_ to prison just to have a chat. You’re going to kill him, right?”

Peter had been lavishing attention on Stiles’s neck. He pulls back now to look Stiles in the eye. “I thought about sending a strongly worded letter, but it’s just not the same if you can’t see their face when they read it.”

“At least tell me who it is. You’ll have to, if you want me to kill him.”

“Are you agreeing to do that, Stiles?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, and spreads his legs. “It’s kind of a lot of work. What’s in it for me?”

Peter growls into his neck and presses his thigh against Stiles’s cock, and they don’t end up finishing the conversation.

* * *

  
Stiles wonders if dicks can get chapped. He’s idly jacking off and watching Peter shave. Watching Peter shave is actual porn.

But he’s not seriously paying attention to his dick, it’s more of a reflex action. While he hasn’t had a lot of opportunity to stick it in anything lately, it’s still seen more action in the last few weeks than it’s accustomed to. 

“So I’m working today,” he says. “Got any special messages for the guys in the SHU?”

Peter tilts his head to shave his jaw, quirks a brow at Stiles in the mirror. “No,” he says. “But if you happen to notice the exact number and location of the cell in which Mr. Adrian Harris resides, I would be much obliged.”

* * *

  
Adrian Harris is a kiddie fiddler.

Stiles is going through his record while Juan mops up puke in the stacks. He tabs through Harris’s file. Convicted of aggravated sexual abuse, sexual abuse of a minor, kidnapping and transport of a minor across state lines. Stiles whistles. No wonder this piece of shit is in solitary confinement. Gen pop would have shredded him by now. 

Scrolling through the record, he keeps looking for mention of Peter or anyone who might have been connected to him. Harris was a high school teacher in, hey look at that, Stiles’s original home town. There but for the grace of God. 

He doesn’t find a connection in Harris’s file, so he googles the case. Chemistry teacher...claims he fell in love with a student...they were going to run away together blah blah blah...nothing. Nada. 

He tries googling Peter instead, and that’s when he hits the jackpot. And also he’s a little disappointed in himself that it took him this long to do it. He’s getting soft in his old age.

First he finds out that Peter is serving twenty years to life for murder while in the act of robbing a bank. He killed a hostage who just ‘happened’ to be a postal worker, making it a federal crime. Poor dumb bastard was just trying to cash a check.

The robbery had been remarkably sloppy, all the papers say. Hale hadn’t bothered to shoot out the cameras or wear a mask. He didn’t secure the doors, and when SWAT asked him what his demands were, Peter had replied, ‘two large anchovy pizzas, a helicopter, and a VHS copy of the 1957 Michael Landon classic, _I was a Teenage Werewolf_.’

He’d never made it out of the bank.

Stiles would have assumed he’s the stupidest criminal alive if he’d known all of this when he moved in. Now he’s convinced that Peter’s a genius and adds _I was a Teenage Werewolf_ to his Netflix cue. 

Scrolling past the first couple of pages of results, though, is where he discovers the connection. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says. 

“What?” Juan is back, looking grumpy and old, as usual. 

“Nothing,” Stiles says, and shuts down the browser. “Thanks for getting that, Juan. I’ll clean up the next round.”

 

Juan starts stamping books, muttering under his breath something about ‘lazy white boys,’ and ‘superstitious nonsense.’

Stiles smirks. His new reputation is _awesome_.

“I’m gonna take the cart through the SHU, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, go on. And don’t let them take a book until they give you one back! If they say they don’t have one then they are lying bastards.”

“Got it.” This is the first time he's been allowed to drive the cart. He's finally worn Juan down.

Stiles wheels the cart down the hall, tucking his “kites” into the pages of the second volume of Harry Potter. Nothing better for the profit margin than a captive audience. 

Stiles’s thoughts are still churning on Peter’s history and what he’s learned as he’s buzzed through to solitary and gets a pat-down. 

While there’s no overt reference to Harris’s involvement, pages three and beyond on google had been exclusively links to stories about the Hale family fire. Which had killed everyone inside except for Peter, who’d been in a coma for over a year. 

The fire was ruled an accident, but the house was in Beacon Hills, and knowing what he knows, Stiles can add up that math. After all, there are very few things that could motivate even the most dedicated psychopath to break into prison to kill a guy who’s already serving ten to twenty years in solitary.

He wheels the cart down the aisle, stopping at every slot with a book sticking out of it. This is the protected wing of solitary, where they keep the medically fragile and the very old. There’s a transwoman at the end of the row who’s appealing her placement. There’s a dirty cop who’d put away a bunch of guys in the general population, and there’s two kid touchers. These are the sad fucks who’re in here for their own safety, rather than punishment, which is why they get library privileges. Stiles would have killed for a book during his private accommodation, but they keep the lunatics and the violent ones down the other hall. Stiles can hear them howling all the way up here. 

There’s a book poking out of a slot, and when Stiles goes to take it, the guy says, “You got any mysteries?”

The voice is familiar. Stiles bends down to peer into the slot. “Is that you, Spider? Long time no see! In your case, literally.”

It is, in fact, Spider, and he scrambles back from the door like his namesake when he hears Stiles’s voice. Stiles laughs. 

“What the fuck are you doing here you fucking psycho? Help! Guard, help!”

“Calm down there, buddy, I’m not gonna hurt you. And also, nobody would come to rescue a piece of shit like you, so you might as well shut up.”

"You should be in here, not me you fucking--"

"Spider, Spider, Spider," Stiles says, shaking his head. "What do you want with a book anyway, it’s not like you can read it."

But Spider isn't listening anymore, lost in his manic rant of what he’s going to do to Stiles when he gets out of there, so Stiles takes his book and slips, _Charlotte's Web_ through the slot. 

_Lolita_ is peeking out of the next door and Stiles takes it.

"Mr. Stilinski, I presume."

The voice is calm, bordering on cold. Stiles ducks down and peers in. The guy is sitting in the lotus position, facing the door, and Stiles recognizes the smarmy look of superiority, if nothing else.

"Adrian Harris."

"I've heard so much about you from our mutual friend," Harris says, and nods towards the wall he shares with Spider.

"All good things, I hope."

Harris smirks at him. "Oh, yes. All good things indeed. But the descriptions don't do you justice. You're," he takes a deep inhale and his eyes spark. "Delectable."

Fingers clenching into fists, Stiles blanks his face and says, "High school chemistry. That's not exactly lucrative. I bet you'd have to have some kind of a side gig to afford the elaborate dungeon they found under your house. Premium leather gimp suits don't come cheap, am I right? Come on, you can tell me," he smiles. "You did some contracting work, didn't you?"

Harris tilts his head, speculative. He purses his lips. "I can see what your father saw in you."

"He wasn't my father," Stiles says before he shuts his mouth. Fuck this guy.

"Oh, my apologies. _Foster_ father. If I recall, though, wasn't he your real father's best friend? I think I read something about how they were partners on the force. It makes you wonder," he shakes his head. "If your daddy hadn't been killed, do you think they would have shared you? Maybe passed you around to all the guys at the precinct? Or maybe Daddy would have kept you all to himself. I know I would."

"You're going to rot in here,” Stiles says, over the rising wail of sirens in his ears. “You're never going to touch another human being in your life, you sick fuck." Stiles's heart is pounding and he's spitting as he talks, mouth drying up and vision blurring. He takes a deep breath and straightens up. Steps away from the door.

"Come back and visit me soon, Stiles. I've enjoyed this little chat.”

Yeah. Stiles is definitely down to kill this guy. Even if Peter doesn’t ask.

* * *

  
And Peter hasn’t technically asked yet, which Stiles finds interesting. It's clearly his end game, to ask Stiles to commit murder--or at the very least to be an accomplice. He wonders what it'll take to reach the tipping point. If it's a matter of time, or trust, or what.

They're in the yard again, and the fat guy with the trans fetish comes sidling up to Stiles about as subtly as a golden retriever.

"Hey man," the guy says. "Hey. You still want that shiv?”

Stiles slants a glance at the guy from the weight bench he’s laying on. He’d taken his shirt off so he can work on his tan. As usual, Peter’s glistening as he lifts a small car’s worth of weight. 

“Sure,” he says, and sits up.

“Cool. Cool. Bring my kites to the bathroom in G wing today after lunch.”

“Who else is going to be there?” He squints at the guy, who pales and begins to shake.

“What? N--no nobody. Just me. I just want the porn, man. I ain’t got no beef.”

Stiles lets the silence spool out longer than is natural. The guy’s sweating, but that’s not saying anything; it’s hot. He’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, breathing rapidly through his mouth. 

“Peter,” Stiles says.

“Yes?”

“Is this guy lying to me?”

Peter racks his weights. “Well, he’s certainly nervous, but I’d put that down to excitement. All the trans porn his little heart desires is quite the boon for someone like him.” He gets up and looms over the guy, sniffing loudly. The guy looks about ready to piss himself. “No,” he finally concludes. “He’ll be there alone.”

The guy exhales loudly.

“But that doesn’t mean his friends won’t be waiting in the hall afterwards. Would you like an escort to your rendezvous, my pet?” He turns to smile at Stiles. 

“Thanks, I’m good,” Stiles says, and puts his shirt back on.

* * *

  
Stiles is spinning on his library stool, contemplating the composition of his letter, when it occurs to him to wonder what Harris’s motive might have been for setting the Hale house ablaze.

He’s come to realize that he _gets_ prison. Like, he understands how it works, almost second nature now. The easy rituals, the routines. The superstitions and the social hierarchies. It’s the guys in the hall, calling each other pussy for not standing up to El Cucuy that gets him thinking about it. 

In the end, it had been rather anticlimactic. The shiv was made from a toothbrush, and the fetish guy’s friends all quailed as Stiles brushed past them. They should have jumped him _before_ he acquired a shiv. Basic tactical mistake, which they seemed to realize a moment too late, as they'd argued among themselves as Stiles walked by.

The question isn’t if he might get jumped, the question is always when. If for no better reason than bragging rights, nobody’s kingdom here lasts forever. Whoever shanks Stiles is going to be the absolute ruler of this joint for a little while. That’s just logic.

But on the outside, people’s motives tend to be more obscure. There are too many variables that can’t be contained.

He saves the draft he’s working on and brings up his private, untraceable browser again. He’s determined to figure out why Harris killed all those people. He hopes it’s at least not a boring reason, like insurance money or something, but he’s not holding out hope.

“Stiles, my dove, whatever are you doing?”

Stiles looks up at Peter, lounging across the counter, looking as smug and self-satisfied as always. 

“What do you want, I’m busy.”

“I can see that. What, pray tell, can hold your attention so fiercely? Aside from my cock, of course.”

Stiles scowls. “Ugh, you’re so gross.” He shuts down the browser and brings back up the letter he’d been working on. “I’m writing a letter to the warden.”

“Oh? Have you become penpals?”

“It’s not from me, it’s from my new counsel, who is appalled at the treatment her technically-underage client is suffering at the hands of Ms. Sharpe’s employees. She's threatening to sue on her client’s behalf. The press could get wind of it, make a big fuss. It could get ugly.”

“Really?” Self-satisfied melts into intrigued as Peter quirks an eyebrow. “What a dreadful scenario. Both for the poor young man and the facility. Unless?”

Stiles’s grin is a near match for Peter’s. “Unless a compromise can be reached that is satisfactory for all parties, of course.”

“Of course. And what sort of terms will the unfortunate young client seek for restitution?”

“That’s what I’m stuck on. Writer’s block sucks.”

“So you’re not writing this looking for more commissary?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Stiles says.

“Darling, you know I’m always ready and willing to play that game with you,” says Peter. “But I hardly think that’s a fair exchange. You’d be getting the better deal.”

“God with the ego on you. No, dumbass, I’ll tell you what I’m doing with this, if you tell me what your exit strategy is.”

“Dearheart.” Peter leans across the desk until he’s whispering in Stiles’s ear. “There are appropriate times and places for such discussions, and then there is here and now.”

“Well,” says Stiles. “I guess you’ll just have to wait until you get home tonight.”

“The suspense is going to kill me.”

“If only. Did you need a book or something?”

“I was told that _Lolita_ had come back. I’d like to check it out, please.”

Stiles snorts. “Of course you would. Hang on, lemme pull it.”

“It’s a special edition, annotated by Nabokov’s greatest student. Did you know that there’s a theory that _Lolita_ isn’t about a girl named Lolita at all, but rather Europe’s fascination with America.”

Stiles pulls it from the stack of to-be-reshelved books and stamps its card. “Sure, keep telling yourself that you sicko.”

“Which would you say I am, if you had to choose? The noble protagonist, Humbert Humbert, or the evil doppleganger, Clare Quilty? I suppose it all comes down to how willingly you conspire with me.”

“What kind of name is _Humbert Humbert_? It can’t be that good, if the writer couldn’t even come up with a different last name.”

“Oh, Stiles, you do charm me so.” Peter waits until the guard turns the corner, and then reaches out to pet Stiles’s head. Stiles jerks away, but not before Peter’s hand tightens on his jaw. “Now now, boy. A little bit of sass goes a long way. Don’t forget who your daddy is.”

“Oh believe me,” Stiles says. “I haven’t forgotten.”

* * *

  
Stiles remembers lots of things. He remembers surprise breathplay, and is looking forward to returning the favor. Imagining the look on Peter's face gets him hard. Planning the perfect scene buoys him through the rest of the week, and he's pushing the cart through the SHU security doors when he decides that tonight's the night.

"Arms up, inmate." Stiles is shoved into the wall face first. 

"What the fuck?" He looks over his shoulder at Yellow Mustache, whose sneer of contempt is sharper than usual.

"You mouthing off to me, 78325? I said arms up. Obedience ain’t optional."

Jesus, this guy. "Sir, yes sir." Stiles puts his hands on his head and faces the wall."

"You looking for another stay in solitary?" Yellow Mustache's breath is warm and rank against the back of Stiles's neck and he shudders involuntarily before he trains his muscles back to stillness. "We've got your old room all set up for you. Haven't even washed the bloody claw marks off."

Stiles faces front and doesn't say a thing.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. See, Karl? Even rabid dogs can be trained. You just have to know what motivates them."

Stiles slants a glance at the other guard, who's yawning into his newspaper.

"This one," says Yellow Mustache. "He thinks he's hot shit. Got the rest of them scared. Doesn't look so tough now, though." He kicks Stiles's feet apart, and presses up against Stiles's back. "Yeah. I bet you scream just quick as all the rest, don't you, boy."

His pants are yanked down and he feels the cold hard plastic head of a guard's baton press against his asshole. He holds his breath.

“Come on, Simpson. Let him through. _Days of Our Lives_ is about to start, I don’t want to miss it.”

The baton presses into the back of his balls, and the pain forces tears to Stiles’s eyes. He shuts them and grits his teeth. The baton rests there for an eternity. Then Yellow Mustache backs off, and Stiles is left with his pants around his knees, ass cold in the tile hallway.

“Let’s go, I don’t got all day,” he says, and buzzes Stiles and the cart through into the SHU.

* * *

  
“Honey, I’m home.” Peter comes through the door just as they call lights out. The cell door slams shut and Stiles on him, shoving Peter up against the wall and pressing the shiv into Peter’s throat. Peter stares at him. Says, “Miss me?”

Stiles has been waiting since after dinner for this. He’s been waiting all day. He’s been waiting for weeks.

“Get on your knees,” he says, and presses the point harder into Peter’s skin. 

Peter arches an eyebrow at him, gaze still level. 

“Do it.” Stiles doesn't yell. He never yells. Yelling would imply a lack of control, which would be untrue in this case. But his voice does get louder. 

Eyes narrowing, Peter slides down Stiles’s body until he’s on his knees, head tilted back to accommodate the shiv. “So this is a fun new game,” he says. 

"Put your hands behind your back."

He waits while Peter looks at him. They stare at each other. Finally Peter clasps his hands behind his back and smirks.

"I've been learning, Daddy," he says, and rubs his open palm over his crotch. He's already hard. 

"Have you, Princess?"

"You've taught me so much. Now I'm going to return the favor."

"Sweetheart," Peter breathes, nuzzles his mouth against Stiles's dick. "I'm so proud of you."

Stiles grabs Peter's chin and forces him back, off balance on his knees so he lists to one side. "Open up, Daddy. No hands." 

Peter leans his head against the wall and opens his mouth, and when his eyes travel up Stiles's body, they're a weight he can feel. Stiles shoves his pants down his thighs and takes himself in hand. He rubs his cock head against Peter's plush lips, still pressing the shiv against Peter's neck.

He feeds his cock into Peter's open mouth, slow, slow. It's hot and soft; it's bliss. He pushes forward until the back of Peter's throat presses against the head, and he sighs. It's so fucking good. Opening his eyes, he looks down at Peter, who's still watching him. His eyes are watery but he doesn't choke. Doesn't make a sound. Stiles rocks forward, smooth wet tongue and tight. Soft. Fuck. "Suck, Daddy," he says. "Suck on it."

Stiles braces himself against the wall, tilts his head back. Shallow little thrusts into Peter's mouth. It's heaven. He slides into Peter's throat, over and over, and Peter can't stop him, can't adjust or pull back because he's trapped between the wall and Stiles's cock. The wet sounds and his own quickening breath are all Stiles can hear for a long time and he picks up speed, hips snapping, and finally, finally, Peter moans.

When he looks down, there's blood trickling down Peter's neck where the shiv has bitten into the skin. Peter's eyes are closed and Stiles sees the tent in his pants; Peter's enjoying this. It makes him angry and he pulls out, Peter is drooling, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“You like that? It turn you on to get facefucked?”

“Yes,” says Peter. The wrinkle on his forehead smoothes as he heaves in breath through his open mouth. Lips slick and swollen.

“Want me to hurt you, Daddy? Want me to mark you up?” He draws the shiv down along Peter’s neck, watches the skin flush. All the little cuts he makes disappear, leaving only a few drops of blood behind. 

“Do you want to mark me, darling?”

Stiles snarls. “Hump my leg while you suck me,” he says. He knocks Peter’s legs further apart and shoves forward until his shin rubs against Peter’s cock. He twists his hand into Peter’s hair until his head is positioned how he wants it, and then thrusts in, rough and sudden, so that Peter coughs. He gags, head jerking in Stiles’s grip. 

“Come on, get yourself off. Just like a dog. Come on,” he’s growling more than talking, teeth clenched, the sensation of Peter’s warm mouth around his dick taking back seat to the satisfaction of seeing tears spring to Peter’s eyes as he’s overwhelmed, choking on Stiles’s cock and working his erection against Stiles’s leg, frantic and dry. 

“Fuck.” 

Finally he’s got a rhythm that’s working for him, he’s got Peter on his knees where he belongs, and Stiles tightens up as the orgasm hits. Swamps him, blind, he lets go. Comes down Peter’s throat and collapses against the wall.

Peter pulls off, twists on his hands and knees, coughing and drooling on the floor. Stiles shudders, cock dribbling a little at the sight. 

He's still collecting himself as Peter stands up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and smiles. Stiles's stomach drops as he ponders that smile. He straightens up and turns to face Peter, who reaches out toward his face with an open hand. Stiles flinches, too fucked out to suppress instincts.

As Peter's fingertips connect with his cheek, Stiles freezes.

Whatever the punishment might be, it was worth it.

Peter's hand, still soft, glides around the back of Stiles's neck and drags him forward into Peter, who wraps his free arm around Stiles's back. And kisses him, closed mouth and chaste. He pulls away and looks Stiles in the eye. "My darling boy," Peter says. "Well done."

Finding his mouth open in astonishment, Stiles closes it. Peter watches him as he runs a hand down from Stiles's neck, along his arm, to his fist, still clenching the shiv. At Peter's touch, his hand falls open and the shiv clatters to the floor, and then Peter surges forward, eyes flashing red as he picks Stiles up and carries him over to the bed, where he's dumped on his back. Promptly divested of his clothing, he watches Peter undress and kneel between his legs. Peter places his palms on Stiles's knees and spreads them apart. Wary, Stiles continues to watch. Waiting for what Peter is going to do next.

What he does next is roll Stiles up and bury his face in Stiles's ass.

"Holy shit," Stiles says, the breath knocked out of him.

"Gonna get you sloppy wet for my knot, little boy." 

Peter tongue-fucks him ruthlessly, keeps his thighs spread wide apart. It goes on long enough that Stiles is hard again, thinking about what it's going to feel like.

Abruptly, Peter pulls away, stands up, disappears. Stiles works on catching his breath. When he comes back he's already slicking up his cock with hand lotion, walks around the bed and stares. Takes Stiles's foot and bends it back, growling as he surveys his work. "Get up," he says, and ducks down to sit on the bunk.

Stiles swings his legs around and then Peter's yanking him over his lap, arranging Stiles how he wants him like a normal person moves a doll. Stiles steadies himself on Peter’s shoulders, knees taking most of his weight. Peter’s digging his fingernails into Stiles’s hips. “There you go,” he says, guiding Stiles down. He hisses as Peter’s cock breaches him and doesn’t slow down. 

“Fuck.”

“What’s the matter, sweetling, can’t take it? Need me to stop?”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says. Peter quirks a grin at him, then leans in, kissing him sloppily, and starts to move. 

"Let me know now, Princess, if you want me to slow down. In about--oh fuck--in a minute I won't be able to stop."

Stiles bounces in Peter's lap, wrestling the rhythm away from him, sets the pace how he likes it. "Yeah, Daddy," he says. "Just like that." He drapes his arms around Peter's neck. Grinds down harder on his dick, and can already feel it expanding inside him. "Fuck."

"You feel so good, sweetheart. So tight for me. And it is all for me, isn't it?" Peter takes Stiles's hands and puts them behind his back, crossing his wrists in one rough hand. Stiles hisses as the bones grind against each other.

"Nobody else. Only you."

"Got everybody else terrified of you, my beautiful boy." He rubs a hand through Stiles's hair, almost petting. "But you bend over so sweetly for me."

Stiles buries his face in Peter's neck. Whispers, "please let me come, Daddy. Need it so bad."

The knot is so full it's catching at his rim with every bounce. Pretty soon he's not going to be able to move. Peter grabs Stiles's ass in both hands and holds him still as he fucks him harder, faster, growling into Stiles's shoulder. "Yeah, okay baby, you can touch yourself. Come for me," Peter says, and Stiles does. He strips his cock hard and fast, coming all over Peter's chest as he feels Peter starting to fill him up. It's filthy and awful it makes Stiles come harder. 

He slumps forward onto Peter when it's over, let's him take all his weight. Peter's still coming, though, and it rapidly becomes uncomfortable. Stiles starts to squirm, half of him wanting to get away from the gross sense of being full, the other half instinctively clenching down, not wanting to lose control.

"Yes, baby, fuck," Peter says. "Keep doing that. Wriggle some more."

Which of course, makes Stiles go still. "How long is this gonna go on for?"

Peter leans back to look at his face. "Not too much longer, dove." He smooths the hair back from Stiles's forehead. "You can take it, I know you can." He kisses Stiles again, and when Stiles clenches down, Peter groans into his mouth, a completed circuit.

"I can feel your cock pulsing. I can literally feel you jizzing in my ass right now."

"Mm," Peter says. He palms an ass cheek and squeezes. "Fill you up. So full you won't be able to move. Can't do anything but beg for more."

Stiles snorts. Peter pulls his cheeks apart, the sensitive skin of his hole pulling away from the knot, and Stiles whimpers.

"Okay, okay. I get it. Wolfy instincts." Stiles leans down, nibbles on Peter's earlobe, and whispers, "knock me up, Daddy. Fill me up with your pups. So fat I just waddle around."

Growling, Peter bounces him a little bit, and Stiles whimpers. 

Getting knotted is both better and worse than he imagined. The sensation of being stretched wide, of being out of control of such a basic bodily function, is gloriously perverse. He wishes he could watch when Peter pulls out; he bets his asshole is going stay wide open, come dribbling out, and Stiles helpless to stop it. The idea gets him hot. 

But he wishes they hadn't done this face to face, because now Peter is staring at him and smiling. The smile looks genuine, too, not even a hint of malice. The enforced intimacy is making Stiles tense up.

"So can you like, rip the door off this cell?"

"More than likely, yes, although I haven't tried." Peter flips them over and Stiles can actually feel the come sloshing around in his guts. 

Yeah, maybe knotting is one of those things that’s better left to his imagination.

“Honestly, I don’t get why you didn’t just tear a hole in the wall and barge right into that guy’s cell. What’s with all the cloak and dagger stuff? You’re literally a creature of myth.”

“While I do admire your faith in me, Stiles, I’m not actually immortal. An entire prison’s worth of guards and guns could do no little bit of damage. Besides,” Peter goes on, rubbing his hideous goatee into Stiles’s throat. “What was it the poet wrote? Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

“I’m disappointed you didn’t say, ‘revenge is a kind of wild justice’, dog boy.”

Peter pulls back, and it pulls the knot against Stiles’s asshole, making him hiss. 

“You really are quite precocious, you know.”

“So I’ve been told. Listen, not to kill the mood, but uh. When you pull out, it’s gonna be a mess.”

Peter growls, eyes turning red. “Yes.”

“And you have a plan for taking care of that?”

“I do.”

“Do I wanna know?”

“Probably not.” Peter rubs a hand in circles on Stiles’s stomach, making it all that much worse. He squirms, and then rapidly realizes his mistake, going still.

“Yeah, ok.” Stiles says. “So what was your plan? Originally. Were you gonna grab Harris by the throat through the slot in the door?”

“Honestly, I figured I’d make it up as I went along. Beyond getting into the SHU, that is.”

“Huh.”

“In my experience, it’s never very hard to kill a human, if one applies oneself.”

“Ditto,” Stiles says. “So hey: let’s talk exit strategies.” He wiggles again, making it apparent that they’re not going anywhere for a while. “What’s yours? And do NOT say that you were gonna make it up as you went along.”

“No,” Peter says, eyes going soft as he grins. “That I had a plan for.” He looks at Stiles and his gaze grows sharp again. “You first, sweetling.”

“Pfft. Fine.” Stiles sighs. Peter runs his face pubes over Stiles’s neck again, and Stiles is starting not to mind, even though it’s scratchy and out of style. “I’m gonna have my counsel send the warden a letter, the warden is going to call me in to have a chat, I’m gonna break into her computer and steal the door codes, then stroll on out of here.”

Peter takes a long breath in and holds it, quirks a brow, and then lets it go. “Really?”

“What? It’s a solid plan.”

“Darling, I can think of at least a dozen flaws, just off the top of my head, and I’m _still_ coming.”

“Ew! What? Gross. Jesus, stop already.” Stiles can’t help the full-on wriggle as his body tries to get away from what has effectively become a sperm enema. “You never said knotting involved fucking gallons-o-jizz, you asshole.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Flatterer.”

“Fuck you’re gross.” Stiles sighs again, staring at the mattress overhead. “Fine. If my plan’s so bad, why don’t you tell me yours?”

“Your plan has some merit, I’ll allow. Maybe we can combine it with mine. Which involves starting a riot, killing several guards, stealing their weapons and perhaps a uniform.”

Stiles blinks. A riot would be good. And also fun. He grins. “Yeah, ok. That could work. We could maybe take the warden hostage. Maybe lure in a couple of guards that way. We’d have to plan it really tight, though. Memorize schedules and shift rotations.”

Peter looks at him askance. 

“Yeah, ok, you’ll have to _share_ the schedules with me. And the SHU is nowhere near the warden’s office.”

“We’ll work it out.”

“And hey,” Stiles says. “I am totally on board with killing Harris. Guy’s a total douchenozzle.”

Peter laughs and Stiles can feel it, deep in his guts. Definitely never doing this again, he thinks, starting to get queasy. 

“Oh, my eloquent little monster. I would truly be in your debt.”

“How ‘bout, to make it fair, you take out Yellow Mustache for me.”

“Who?”

“That guard, you know the one. Sadistic psycho. Almost baton-raped me at the guard’s desk.”

Peter slowly pulls back to look at him, eyes glowing red and teeth descending. “He what?”

The hair on Stiles’s neck stands up, Peter is unnaturally still. 

“He didn’t do it, but it was close for a second.”

The sub-vocal growl rattles Stiles’s bones. “It would be my pleasure to rip his arms off and stuff them up his ass for you.”

“Yeah, uh. Cool. That could. That would be fine.” Turned on and not a little spooked, Stiles stretches his neck in invitation for Peter to resume his weird necking thing. Anything is better than the sheer blankness of his red-eyed stare. After a moment, Stiles feels a squishy sort of looseness starting to happen, and he clenches up in a futile attempt to hold off the inevitable. “Peter?”

“Mm.”

“I think you’re...deflating.”

“Mm,” he says again, licking a long stripe up Stiles’s neck, then biting gently before letting go. He starts to pull out and Stiles closes his eyes with a hiss. Too bad he can’t just disassociate on command anymore. That’d really come in handy.

* * *

  
So it turns out the plan could have used some work.

Sirens are wailing and Peter’s standing in front of Stiles, arm outstretched and covered in gore up to his elbow. In his extended palm is a still-beating heart. 

Peter is definitely The Beast right now, tail and fangs and fur and all. He cocks his head at Siles and offers the heart again. Behind him, the warden’s body slumps from her chair to the floor.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, and takes it. “Mm, heart. And it’s not even Valentine’s day.”

Peter leaps over the desk and starts to sniff Stiles. Oh god, is his tail wagging? Stiles is so fucked.

“Hey, buddy? Listen. Yeah, good job. Listen,” Stiles takes a step away from Peter and closer to the door. “We’re kind of in a rush right now. How about you sniff me later?”

A look of confusion passes over Peter's face and Stiles isn’t sure if it’s because he wants to keep sniffing or if he doesn’t currently understand English.

“We gotta go, okay? But I promise, plenty of sniffing later. Right now we gotta--”

“Put your hands up!” Stiles doesn’t turn to look, but he can hear at least one gun cocking behind his back.

“Shit,” he says, and puts his hands up, still holding onto the warden’s heart. 

And it had all started off so well.

* * *

  
The morning after the Thing Which Will Never be Spoken Of happened, Peter had followed Stiles around with hearts in his eyes, mooning like a thirteen year old with his first hard-on. They’d sat down to review the plan, ironing out details like duty rosters and the best place to incite the riot. Stiles thought the cafeteria would be good, because it was on the other side of the prison from the warden’s office, where he’d assumed they’d rendezvous. Peter had disagreed, saying the timing worked better in the yard.

They’d gone back and forth on it, until finally Stiles conceded. After all, it’s not as if he’d spent multiple years planning this. They’d settled on the riot in the yard, ideally with Yellow Mustache being caught in the melee and then shredded like a baby deer, Harris being lured to the slot in his door, and then filleted by Stiles, courtesy of his trusty shiv. They’d planned the routes from there to the warden’s office, where they’d take advantage of the confusion, get a couple of guards separated from the herd and steal their uniforms. Then walk out through the staff door.

Peter didn’t like it that Stiles’s contingency plan for getting out of the SHU was shanking a guard, possibly two. He said he didn’t like those odds.

Stiles had laughed, mocking Peter’s suddenly tender feelings until Peter had had enough and bent him over the low wall dividing Chemistry from Criminal Justice in the library.

“Peter,” Stiles had panted, huffing air the best he could with textbooks cutting into his sternum. “How does literally any plan work without stealing at least one set of keys each?” And then Peter had switched up the angle and Stiles had moaned, and Peter had covered his mouth with a hand until they were done.

Really, in hindsight, it’s not so much that the plan was flawed, as it was that Peter could only think with his dick. And that was definitely not Stiles’s fault.

At any rate, Stiles had held up his end of the bargain.

* * *

  
Wheeling the cart into the SHU, a calmness falls over him. He remembers this feeling from the last time he’d planned and executed the murder of a child molester. As he approaches Harris’s door he can hear Spider whistling to himself.

“I think I’ll miss you most of all, Spider,” he whispers, ignoring the book poking out of his slot. Harris is sitting in the usual lotus position and Stiles crouches down, flipping open the slot.

He eases the shiv out of his sleeve and into his hand. He smirks.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Harris says.

“Hey there, buddy, what’ll it be today? _Kaze to Ki no Uta_ , maybe? I know you really wanted to check out _33 Snowfish_ , but what can I say, it’s a popular title.”

“Your visits never fail to brighten my day, Stiles. I do so hope you have someone who brightens yours in equal measure.”

“Yeah, speaking of. Do you get much news down here at the ass-end of the sewer?”

“Not nearly as much as I’d like, I’m afraid.” Harris hasn’t moved from his serenely smug position in the middle of the floor. 

“Then maybe you haven’t heard about my roomie, Peter.”

“Please, do enlighten me.”

“You know, at first I thought he was dumb as a box of hair. He got caught robbing a bank, and just to really fuck himself up, he killed a postman, making it a federal crime.”

Harris makes a noise like he’s feigning interest; Stiles can’t wait to see the look on his face in about a half a second.

“But then I figured out that he actually _wanted_ to get caught.”

“Do tell,” says Harris.

“Yeah, turns out, it was all an elaborate setup to get _in_ jail, cuz he needed to get close to the guy who killed his whole family.” Stiles switches up positions so that his knees are on the floor, giving him more leverage.

“Hn,” Harris says. “If the murderer was already in jail, that hardly seems worth it.”

“I know, right? Crazy bastard could have just left the fucker to rot. Would have been simpler, in my opinion.”

“Indeed.”

“You know what’s been bugging me?”

“Mm.”

“In all the coverage of your trial, they never mention the kid you diddled by name. Now, why would that be, I wonder?”

Harris’s attention swivels to him, eyes piercing. Stiles has him now.

“First of all, what my pupil and I shared was nothing remotely like the slanderous accusations made against us. We were in love.”

“Oh, right, my bad. So like, does she still write you letters, or?”

One eyebrow twitches up as Harris says, with emphasis, “ _He_ is no longer allowed to contact me, due to this country’s backwards laws and narrow-minded Puritanical cowards.”

“Still, though, he’s gonna wait for you, right?”

“Sadly, our time together was all too brief. Young Derek has passed youth’s threshold into manhood, and all I can do is hope that my lessons have served their purpose in shaping who he will become.”

Stiles nods, like he’s totally empathetic. “Right, right. Or in other words, if there’s grass on the field, it’s no fun anymore.”

Harris smirks at him, eyes shrewd. “Oh, callow youth, who knows not what spell it weaves o’er the ensorceled heart of a wise fool.”

“Isn’t that the slogan for NAMBLA?”

“When you have stood upon that threshold yourself, Stiles, you will look back upon your relations as a youth and smile, wistful of days gone too soon.”

“Well,” Stiles says, and shrugs. “That might happen, but too bad I’m still jailbait. Literally. Ha!”

“While you could never hold a candle to my beloved, you are not without your charms.”

“Hey, thanks. I try. So listen, what’ll it be, this library cart ain’t gonna distribute itself.”

Harris shuffles over to peer through the slot at the titles. “ _Leaves of Grass_ , I think.”

“Classy,” Stiles, says, and just as he’s about to slide it through, he pulls back, as if just remembering something. “Oh wait a second. Your ‘beloved’ - Derek? That wouldn’t by any chance be Derek _Hale_ would it?”

He goes still, growing pale. Harris meets his eyes, quizzical. 

“You know, it’s a small world? My roomie, Peter, you remember. Yeah, you’ll never guess what _his_ last name is.”  
Harris is utterly silent. Between one breath and the next, he’s shifted from smug shit-eating garbage to frozen, terror-filled prey.

Stiles smiles slowly.

“Funny old world,” he says, and reaches through the slot lightning fast, grabbing Harris’s shirt and yanking him forward. “He sends his regards, by the way.” And slashes Harris’s throat in one clean motion.

Letting go of Harris, he falls over on his ass, but he keeps the slot open so he can watch as the blood gurgles out of Harris’s neck, eyes wide, hands uselessly grasping at his throat. 

It’s mesmerizing. 

“Oh, damn, I meant to ask you: did you burn down Derek’s house before you kidnapped him? Why? Did he really wanna go with you, or did you have to drag him out, kicking and screaming? And how small is your dick, anyway? Is it the size of a peanut? A raisin? Hello?”

Harris keels over, gasping like a fish as the light fades from his eyes and blood pools on the floor.

“Damn,” Stiles says. He really wants to know what the fuck happened with the fire. Guess he’ll never know, now.

* * *

  
After that, the clock starts ticking. He’d made good time--primarily by missing half the deliveries he was supposed to make--and he’d avoided any blood spatter, so when they let him back out into gen pop, no one was yet the wiser.

But Stiles still had to get across the facility and into the warden’s office before all hell broke loose.

They’d chosen today because Stiles’s letter had done the trick, and he rolls up to his appointment just in time. As he steps through and the door slams behind him, a siren goes off in the yard.

Through the window behind Ms. Sharpe, Stiles watches the melee unfold. The Surteños and the Mafia have ganged up on the Nazis, who made the ill-advised choice of aligning themselves with the much diminished Lords of Hell. Maybe they’ll change their name to the Dukes of Hell, Stiles muses.

Holy shit, was that a foot that just flew past the window? It’s followed shortly by a geyser of blood, so he guesses it was. Stiles gawks until Ms. Sharpe clears her throat.

“Stiles,” she says, regal on her grey throne. “Sit down.”

Stiles takes a seat with an oblique view of the yard, hoping to catch a glimpse of Peter in action, or at the very least Yellow Mustache, but all he can see is a seething knot of arms and legs and tattoos.

“Did you really think this would work?” she asks, shaking a piece of paper on her desk. “It's not even on real letterhead. The phone number on it belongs to the _Los Angeles Times_.”

“So you got my letter.”

“I’m sure you think you’re very funny.”

“Honestly,” Stiles says. “I think I’m wasted on this crowd. It’s probably my own fault, really. You know the old saying: know your audience.”

Ms. Sharpe blinks, fingers still clutching Stiles’s letter. “And just what did you hope to accomplish with your shenanigans?”

Shenanigans, Stiles thinks. Such a great word. He sighs, looking at the clock above the warden’s head. Peter’s already late, he doesn’t know how long he can spool this out. He gets out of his chair and walks back to the window. “Ms. Sharpe, I’ve got some time to kill, so I’m gonna take this opportunity to do something I’ve always wanted to do.”

“And what is that?”

He turns and faces her. “I’m going to do a villain’s monologue,” he says. “Now, I know what you’re gonna say: monologues are trite and out of fashion. Hell, maybe they’ve never been realistic, but. I dunno. There was just always something compelling about them, you know? Having Bond all tied up with a laser beam pointed at his balls, you gotta feel on top of the world, right?

“And really, what good is a dastardly plan if no one’s around to appreciate it? You go to all the trouble of setting a trap, cooking up a scheme that’s like, Rube Goldberg-level complicated, and all depending on the hubris of an over-confident protagonist. I mean, you spend weeks of your life figuring out all the moving parts. That deserves at least a little applause.

“So I’m going to level with you, warden. I knew that letter wouldn’t work. But I also knew that you’d want to take me down a peg by telling me to my face how childish and stupid I am. And I knew that you’d call me to your office to do it; it’s not like you’re gonna come to my place, right? So I wrote that letter with the full intention of being called in here.”

The warden is getting red in the face now. “Well, if you’re so smart, Mr. Stilinski, why don’t you tell me what happens next?”

“Oh that? That’s the easy part. See, you’re gonna give me the door codes, and I’m gonna walk out of prison.”

“And what would motivate me to do that?”

As if on cue, there’s a bloodcurdling scream out in the hall, and the door gets wrenched off its hinges and tossed into the center of the room. 

“Him,” Stiles says, and points behind himself. He turns to glance at Peter and is shocked still for a moment, staring at the...thing standing in the doorway. It’s got Peter’s jumpsuit on, but aside from that, there’s no way to tell that it’s even human. “Holy shit.”

“God in heaven,” says Ms. Sharpe.

Peter’s eyes swivel from Ms. Sharpe to him, and Stiles swears that he sees the creature smile. “Hey, buddy. Ready to go?”

Peter growls, which Stiles takes as a yes. Just then, the sirens start to wail, red emergency lights flashing on and off in the hall.

Stiles and Peter both look at Ms. Sharpe, who’s got her finger on a button underneath her desk. “Now just one minute. If you think you can terrorize me into letting you go, you have another think coming, young man. This prison is escape-proof, and you are not going anywhere.” She says, standing up and shaking her finger at Stiles. 

Peter steps forward, growling. 

“Lady, are you seriously sticking to ‘no’ here? Am I the only one who can see the giant beast in the middle of the room?”

“I will not be coerced.” Ms. Sharpe has drawn herself up to her full height, pointy and silver and looking down her nose at them both. It’s equal parts ridiculous and amazing. Stiles can honestly say that he did not plan for this eventuality. Touché Ms. Sharpe.

“Uh. Well. Then I guess I’m just going to have to hack your computer and get the codes myself.” Stiles makes to do just that, and Ms. Sharpe interposes herself, barring his path. Stiles raises an eyebrow, about to say...he doesn’t know what, but something incredulous, when Peter roars, leaps across the room and jams his claws into her chest, all in the blink of an eye.

* * *

  
“Put your hands up!” Stiles doesn’t turn to look, but he can hear at least one gun cocking behind his back.

“Shit,” he says, and puts his hands up, still holding onto the warden’s heart. 

“Holy fuck, what the fuck is that? Shoot it!”

Stiles ducks down on instinct, scrambles behind a chair, but not before he sees two guards firing point blank at Peter’s chest.

“Peter!” No no no no this is not how this ends. Peter cannot die for him. He-- The heart rolls out of his hand as the place goes silent. He stands up. 

The guards have stopped shooting because Peter has ripped their heads off. Stiles runs over to him, tearing open the jumpsuit to reveal bullet holes in Peter’s chest. Peter whines, but holds still as Stiles examines him. 

“You’re-- Are you okay?” It shouldn’t be possible, with that many wounds, for Peter to be standing. But he is. And he starts to shift back before Stiles’s eyes. 

Peter clutches at his shoulders as a massive shudder runs through him. “Stiles,” he whispers, voice still rough. “Go.”

“Yeah, come on. I got you.” Stiles slides an arm under one of Peter’s, pulling him up and heading down the hall. The sirens are still blaring and he knows there will be more guards any second. 

“No, you go,” Peter says, panting and doubled over, almost dragging Stiles down with him. “I’m going to go find Yellow Mustache.”

Stiles stops. “What?”

”He wasn't where he was supposed to be,” Peter says, wincing as blood runs over the hand he has clutched to his chest. “He wasn't in the yard.”

“What-- Peter, who _cares_ , you're fucking shot, just leave him, come on.” 

“No, he touched what's mine, he's gonna die. Go, I’ll find you.” And he pushes Stiles down one hall before stumbling down another.

If he were a better person, Stiles thinks, this would be the moment he follows Peter back into the fray. The guy literally took a bullet for him.

And he does actually hesitate, but then he hears more guards approaching, and he grabs the keys, nightstick, and gun off one of the headless corpses and bolts down the hall.

Peter can take care of himself.

* * *

  
He jogs past the visitor room, which is a goldfish bowl filled with people now that the whole place is in lockdown. Stiles waves as he passes, and among the frightened wives and children, one kid peeks from around his mom to wave back. That's when he realizes that he's covered in gore pretty much from shoulders to knees.

He swerves off to go find the guards' locker room, and he's in luck: not only is there an entire room full of unsecured uniforms, but there's also a sink. He scrubs up the best he can while shaking from all the adrenaline that's flooded his system in the last--he checks the clock on the microwave--holy crap, it's only been ten minutes since he'd monologued in the warden's office. Jesus. 

He hastily dries off with a wad of paper towels and jams into a guard uniform. It's only a little too big; it'll do. 

Incredibly, he makes it all the way to the front door without running into anyone. They must all be running towards Peter. Stiles's under-nourished conscience attempts to twinge at the thought, but Stiles tells it to shut the fuck up as he hits the door and runs out into the late afternoon sunshine.

And smack into the arms of an elderly guard.

The guy's 4'11", tops, and practically 100 years old. Stiles cusses under his breath.

"Oh, sorry," the old guy says. "Say, what's going on in there? The door won't open."

"Yeah," Stiles starts, then clears his throat and lowers his voice. "Yeah, we're in lockdown. There's been a 337. Best if you just go home."

"What? What's a 337? And if we're in lockdown, what are you doing out here? Who are you, I've never seen you before."

Stiles starts to panic. He really doesn't want to have to kill an old guy. And he's so close. Dammit. 

"How long has it been since you read the manual, huh? 337," he says, gesticulating. "Prison riot?" Stiles is totally bullshitting. Hopes if he pisses the guy off enough, he won't question Stiles's credentials. "And I'm out here because my CO told me to be out here. The real question is what are you doing out here? Huh?"

It mostly works, in that the guy eyes him crankily, huffs, and throws up his hands. "You know what, I don't need this crap. I was on the force 40 years; I was retired. But no, they said. Marv, you gotta keep active. Get a part time job. Keep yourself busy. Something easy, they said. Well screw them. I'm going home."

"You tell 'em, Marv," Stiles says, breathing out his relief. And then realizes the opportunity that has just fallen into his lap. "Hey, wait up, which way you going?"

And that's how Stiles busts out of prison.

* * *

  
He rides most of the way home with Marv, who saw action in Korea in '52 and who is of the opinion that the only honor in killing comes of staring right into the eyes of the enemy before you stick a bayonet in their guts, hopping out at a rest stop and wishing Marv well.

He's free. 

He takes in a deep breath, noticing the sunset behind the Texaco sign and the overpass. He's free.

He can do anything he wants now.

He doesn't know what he wants to do.

No, that's a lie. He does know, it's just that it's impractical. He wants to go back and find Peter. Which is absurd because Peter is most certainly dead by now.

And also he's not as brave or as stupid as Peter, and can't quite pull off the swagger he'd need to walk back into the prison he'd just broken out of, although the idea does make him laugh.

So, that option off the table, Stiles is left with too many choices to pick one. In fact, this might be the first time that he has ever truly had a choice. About anything.

He blinks. Sucks in a breath, scrubs one eye with the heel of a hand. Breathes out. Turns himself in the direction of the gas station. Until he can get to his PO box or a computer, he's out of cash.

Time to earn some the old fashioned way.

* * *

  
To say that he's bummed would be accurate. Which totally sucks, because he'd spent every moment of his time in prison dreaming of this.

The original plan, devised as the jury read out the verdict, went something like this: hack the Dead Asshole's accounts and steal his estate. Put it all in the stock market and let it multiply. Then hack all of the accounts of the Dead Asshole's friends, steal their money and hold all their files for ransom. Take all _that_ money and roll it into more futures. Then tip off the FBI anonymously on Dead Asshole's friends and their kiddie pic ring.

Once he'd built up a nice little nest egg, bust out of jail and buy a private island. Then live happily ever after.

And most of those things are goals he can now check off his to-do list. He should be fucking ecstatic. But he's not.

And it's pissing Stiles off. 

Peter hadn't showed at the rendezvous point. Stiles had waited for a week in a dingy motel, sneaking out only at night to stock up on Pringles and Mountain Dew. He'd known by the evening of the second day that Peter wasn't coming. And he'd been disappointed in his own sentimental heart, which wouldn't let him leave until the news had stopped reporting on the freak wild animal attack at the local men's prison.

And now he's pretty sure he's in love, which: gross. In love with a dead guy who'd called him _mine_ without irony or shame, which is just a thousand times worse. Honestly, Stiles is lucky. Peter could have lived, and then what? How would he even begin to deal with someone as freakishly possessive as that?

He wouldn't, that's how. 

So yeah. He should be ecstatic, and he's not, and the fact that he's not is pissing him off. 

On his private island is a mansion with 20 bedrooms, a bowling alley, four pools, a theater, a spa, and a room filled with nothing but pinball machines. He bought the mansion and all of the stuff in it along with the island. He'd never played pinball before, but he's coming to appreciate the tactility of the game. It's more aggressive than video games, anyway. The bowling alley is stocked but remains unused.

Five of the bedrooms have waterbeds in them, and one has a hot tub in the shape of a heart. The entire room is gold. The ceiling has mirrors on it. It's so ugly he'd immediately claimed it as his primary bedroom, leaving the other 19 empty and covered in dust.

At first, the novelty of watching himself jack off was enough to prevent his mind from wandering, but eventually he'd circle back around to memories of fucking Peter and how rough he'd been. He'd rest a hand on his neck and squeeze when he came, but it just wasn't the same.

* * *

  
Stiles is in the pinball machine room when he hears a helicopter. It isn't Tuesday, so he's not expecting groceries. No one else knows where he is, he doesn't think. The entire island and three miles into the ocean is a permanent no-fly zone, thanks to a strategic bribe to the coast guard of the Isla de Salamanca--the next nearest inhabited island.

Anyway, a helicopter is no bueno. Stiles bolts up the turret installed by the paranoid Colombian kingpin he'd bought this place from and peers through the scope of his anti-aircraft gun.

As he takes aim, he sees the pilot waving. At him. Nonplussed, Stiles waves back, and watches the pilot laugh. 

He recognizes that peculiar head tilt; can almost hear the laugh. He swallows, heart picking up speed and finger coming off the trigger. He bends down to peer through the scope again, and now the helicopter is closer. He can make out aviator shades and a truly hideous goatee. It can't be. There's no way. 

But it is.

Peter points at the landing pad and Stiles nods, knowing now that the pilot can actually see him. He races back down the turret, hitting the landing pad at just about the same time as the helicopter does.

Peter ducks under the blades as they slow down, and the relative lack of noise is stunning.

Or maybe it's just that he's staring at _Peter_. Alive. 

"Hello, Princess," Peter says.

"Peter. What the actual fuck? How did you find me?"

"I told you I would."

And that's true, as far as it goes. "You're alive."

"I am."

That's when Stiles hits his limit. He's had enough of this bullshit. He walks up to Peter and punches him in the jaw. Or, he would have, had Peter allowed his fist to connect. Instead, he catches Stiles's hand and brings it to his lips, kisses it.

"You unbelievable dickhead," Stiles says.

"I missed you, too." Peter doesn't let go of his hand. Instead, he pulls Stiles closer, until Stiles is plastered to Peter's front, nose inches away from Peter's. He goes cross-eyed and Peter grins. "Good job on bribing that coast guard, by the way. They almost took me out."

"Yeah, well, not good enough. You made it."

"But I'm not just anyone."

"True," Stiles says. Peter is warm, and the wind is cold and sharp. "Come inside."

"After you," says Peter.

* * *

  
It's weird at first, sitting on his sofa across from Peter, in his million dollar living room, drinking a beer.

Peter looks good in civvies, though, damn. Despite the presence of an actual v-neck, the rest of his clothes look expensive, and tailored. Was Peter always that built?

"So," Stiles says. 

"Mm." Peter takes a drink of beer. "You've done well for yourself."

"Yeah, I exploited a few back doors, cracked a couple of databases, and here we are."

"Indeed," Peter says, and smiles cryptically. "You never were a damsel in distress."

Stiles watches him drink his beer, getting comfortable, and is so unbearably hard that eventually he blurts out, "Wanna see my bedroom?"

Peter says, "I thought you'd never ask."

They make it up the stairs before Stiles climbs Peter like a tree, wrapping his legs around Peter's waist and attacking his mouth. He guides Peter to the right bedroom through a combination of grunts and kicks to his thigh. They land on the bed and almost bounce completely off again.

"Is this a waterbed, Stiles?"

"Mmhm. Sexy, right?"

Peter pulls back from where he'd been biting Stiles's neck and extends a hand, where, very slowly, his nails grow into claws. 

"Yeah, I see the problem now."

"Mm."

"Well, do you think you can keep those to yourself for the next, say, fifteen minutes? I don't wanna have to find another bed right now."

Peter sighs. "Fine. Here, get up, I wanna rip your clothes off."

Stiles stands up, and Peter literally rips the clothes off of him. They hang in shreds from his belt and pool around his shoes. "That was a little gratuitous, don't you think?"

 

"I have a feeling you can spare these," Peter says. 

Stiles can, but that's not the point. He shrugs and tugs until he's naked, Then climbs over Peter, who's laying back with his head pillowed on his arms. "Gonna fuck me, daddy?"

Peter's eyes glow red and he grabs Stiles by the biceps, holding him where he is while Peter...sniffs him. 

He starts at the neck, and Stiles is into it. It's kinda sexy. But then he doesn't stop, sniffing Stiles's armpits--and licking them, ew--and continuing down, flipping Stiles onto his back while he sniffs his elbows, his hands, his ribs, his belly button, and then finally, hallelujah, his dick. He growls at it and Stiles shivers, remembering the incredibly sharp teeth Peter has in his other form.

Then he bends Stiles's legs up and starts to sniff his asshole, which just. Fine. It's fine. Stiles refuses to find that hot in any way. 

"Come on," he says, wiggling. "You know you wanna."

"Want to what, my dove?" 

"Don't make me say it," Stiles says.

"If you can't say it, you can't do it." Peter looks up and catches his eye. "When do you turn eighteen?"

"Fuck you," Stiles wriggles some more, but Peter doesn't give an inch. "Fine. Stop sniffing me and eat my ass. Please."

"Please what?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Please daddy."

"Good boy," Peter says. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" He bends back down and starts to eat Stiles out, so Stiles doesn't sass back.

God it feels good. He'd honestly thought he'd never get to have this again. Peter's rough tongue is unrelenting, working him open and sloppy wet. Stiles hooks his arms under his knees to open himself up wider, luxuriating in the gently rocking bed, all the space. It occurs to him that he can be as loud as he wants, here. "Fuck, yes. Daddy, that's so good," he says, trying it out. He moans, tossing his head back and just letting Peter fuck him with his tongue. He threads a hand into Peter's hair and uses it to steer him where he wants him.

Peter seems into it, humming approval while his thumbs dig into the skin of his ass, pulling him open even further.

Stiles remembers that he's got actual lube now, and leans over to the nightstand to get it. "Here," he says. "Use this."

Peter stops what he's doing to take the lube in hand and smirks. "This will come in handy when I fist you."

"When you-- oh fuck." Stiles's cock pulses a little just thinking about it. "Yeah," he says, barely a breath. "Ok."

Peter slicks up his fingers and gets back to work, adding two to his tongue and all the different sensations going on down there--soft and warm, slick and hard, deep and teasing--make Stiles lose it just a little bit. He loses track of time and what's happening, just is completely in the moment, watching Peter go to town in the ceiling mirror, and it's already the best sex he's ever had. 

When Peter unzips his pants and slicks up his cock, Stiles doesn't even mind that he's still dressed, he just drags Peter down for a hard kiss, bites his lip as Peter rocks into him, long and hard and not patient at all. He wraps his legs around Peter again and works himself down on his cock. "Fuck, daddy, fuck me. Harder, please. Please."

"Stiles," Peter says, and it's hushed, like Peter didn't mean to say it. He buries his face in Stiles's neck as he fucks him, hard, fast. Unyielding. Stiles is along for the ride. 

And when he comes, rubbing off against Peter's stomach, he makes a mess of Peter's nicely tailored clothes. Oh well, Stiles is sure he can spare them.

Limp as a dishrag, Stiles lets himself be moved when Peter sits him up, straddling his lap. Peter fucks into him, harder, arms like iron bands holding him still. Stiles's head lolls on his neck as he rides him. Peter's eyes start to glow again, and he swears he can feels claws on his back when Peter comes. He stays buried deep for a long time, just sniffing Stiles's neck and holding onto him.

Finally, though, Stiles gets sore, and he slides off of Peter's lap, into a puddle on the bed. Peter lays down next to him and pets him.

"What's with the clothes?"

Peter shrugs, continuing his caresses. 

Stiles lays a hand against Peter's heart. "Do you have scars? Is that what you don't want me to see?"

He catches Peter's eye, and Peter smiles briefly, before turning and laying on his back. Stiles curls up over him, chin resting on his chest, hand toying with the hem of his t-shirt. "You think I'd care about something like that?"

Shrugging, Peter captures his hand and holds it. "You're extraordinary, do you know that?" He says. 

Stiles blinks. "Um. What?"

"You're unlike anyone I've ever known. Ruthless, brilliant." He turns and looks at Stiles. "Beautiful. It's like you were made for me."

"...Thanks, I guess."

"And you might not know it, but you could have anyone you wanted."

"Huh," Stiles says. "Anyone?"

"Mm."

"What if I wanted you?"

Peter huffs a laugh. "You might think you do, but that's because you don't have much to compare me to. Just give it some time. Get out in the world; you'll see. You can do a lot better than a killer werewolf."

"Okay, first of all: no, I can't. There is practically nothing better than your own personal killer werewolf, so. Shut up. Second of all," Stiles sits up and looks Peter in the eye. "Does it look like I have any plans to 'get out in the world'? You're the second person I've seen in months. The other guy brings my groceries." He waves his hand at the empty and echoing room. "Would I have bought an actual private island if I wanted to get out and mingle?"

Shrugging, Peter looks down at their clasped hands. "We were a relationship of convenience. I only seduced you because you took my job."

"Well, and look how that turned out."

"How did that turn out, by the way?"

"It went well. I told him you said hello."

"Good," Peter says, a slow smile spreading across his face. 

"Look, the thing is: we might have started out as convenient, but. You." Stiles sighs. Focuses on the wall across the room. "You took a bullet for me. Several, in fact. That wasn't convenient."

"It really wasn't."

"And when you didn't show. I thought you were dead. I thought I'd never see you again." It's easier to keep his eyes on Peter's the more he talks, but he still doesn't like it. "I don't. I didn't." Stiles closes his eyes. "I've never had a friend. Or...or anyone. Really. Someone who had my back." He opens his eyes. "Until you. And then you were gone."

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it before now," Peter says.

"What happened to you?"

Taking a deep inhale, Peter lets it out slowly, playing with Stiles's fingers. "I went back in to find Yellow Mustache."

"Yeah, I remember."

"I found him, tore him apart, and then I left."

That isn't what Stiles thought he was going to say. "And then aliens came and abducted you, and that's why you didn't meet me at the rendezvous point?"

Peter smirks, weary. "I was hurt. Badly. I needed time to heal, and I knew I'd just slow you down."

"And," Stiles says slowly, putting the pieces together. "You thought I wouldn't care one way or the other."

Peter shrugs.

"Idiot."

"I still think you're making a mistake, betting on me." Peter says.

"Yeah, well, you don't get to tell me what to do." Peter looks at him askance. "Ok, you do get to tell me what to do, but only in bed. And I don't always listen." Peter's eyebrow twitches. "I don't! I might not. One day. Don't be surprised if I don't listen to you one of these times. I'm the king of this castle."

"You're the princess," Peter says, and runs a hand through Stiles's hair. 

"Shut up."

"So is this our bedroom?" Peter asks. 

"This is _my_ bedroom. Go find your own."

"As if you'd be able to sleep without me." Peter turns on his side and pulls Stiles in so that they're hugging, Stiles's head tucked under his chin. "I'm going to knot you again. Can't wait to see what that will feel like on a waterbed. Who even has these anymore?"

"The fuck you will," Stiles says. "That's never happening again." He tries to wriggle out of Peter's grasp, but is stopped by prickling claws. 

"You didn't like it when I felched you?" 

"I told you, we are never going to speak of that again." A loud bang is abruptly accompanied by a torrent of cold water.

Stiles scrambles out of bed, Peter right behind him. 

"Fuck," Stiles says. He really liked this bed.

"What did I tell you," Peter says, holding up his claws.

"Well if someone wasn't a possessive maniac, maybe we could have nice things."

Peter ogles him where he's standing, naked and shivering. Stiles huffs. 

"You know what? That's ok, there's four more of these bad boys. Come on." And he slips his hand into Peter's, tugging him down the hall.

[the end]

**Author's Note:**

> _[El Cucuy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coco_\(folklore\)) is a mythical ghost-monster, equivalent to the bogeyman, found in many Hispanic and Lusophone countries. ...it is a commonly used figure of speech representing an irrational or exaggerated fear._
> 
>   * [Fish](http://www.prisontalk.com/forums/archive/index.php/t-131557.html)
>   * [The Lords of Hell](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5zfNhfOklQ)
>   * [The SHU](http://www.latimes.com/local/lanow/la-me-ln-solitary-confinement-california-20150901-htmlstory.html)
>   * [Prison Commissary List](https://www.bop.gov/locations/institutions/dub/DUB_CommList.pdf)
>   * [The Annotated Lolita](https://www.amazon.com/Annotated-Lolita-Revised-Updated/dp/0679727299)
>   * [33 Snowfish](https://www.amazon.com/33-Snowfish-Adam-Rapp/dp/0763629170/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1504904196&sr=1-1&keywords=33+snowfish)
>   * [Kaze to Ki no Uta](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaze_to_Ki_no_Uta)
>   * [Leaves of Grass](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman#Leaves_of_Grass)
>   * [Rube Goldberg](https://www.rubegoldberg.com/about/)
>   * [Title from Bjork](https://youtu.be/6ADS-VUHSEM)
> 



End file.
